


Feels Like the Wind

by MandalaRose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Bastardizes Multiple Mythologies To Suit Her Own Purposes, Baby/Toddler Sam Winchester, Canonical Character Death, Child Dean Winchester, Drowning, Fire, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kite Maker Dean Winchester, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, No underage, Sam Would Be Appalled. The Lore. The LORE!, Slow Burn, Sprite Castiel (Supernatural), Sprites and Sirens and Witches Oh My!, Teen Dean Winchester, Very Brief Cassie Robinson/Dean Winchester, Wind Sprite Castiel, nature spirits, non-explicit sexy times, temporary mcd, very temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22671973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandalaRose/pseuds/MandalaRose
Summary: Feeling rather mischievous, possibly for the first time in his existence, Castiel coaxes a flurry of fallen leaves and flower petals into the air with the kite.  They swirl around the kite like coordinated confetti, glimmering in the afternoon sunshine and the tinkling laugh of a happy child.  The boy stops still, his jade eyes going wide and round.“Whoa,” he whispers.Wind is inquisitive and quick-learning by nature, rattling shutters and finding its way into every crack and crevice, no matter how thoroughly stopped up they seem to be.  This is perhaps what leads Castiel to befriend a small sandy-haired boy with grass-green eyes and a love for flying kites.  The wind sprite and the kite maker become fast friends, forming a profound bond that only seems to strengthen with time.  But what will happen to their friendship when the little boy with the red kite grows into a man?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 144
Kudos: 223





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends and Happy Unattached Drifter Christmas! 
> 
> Not only is it Valentine's Day (or almost Valentine's Day), it's also the one year anniversary of my very first Ao3 author post! So happy fic-aversary, readers! A big, big, BIG thank you to all of you, and especially to those of you who took a chance on that first fic and have stuck around ever since! This story is for you. It's my first fic where one of the boys is something other than human or angel and my first with fantasy/magical elements (outside of those found in canon). I hope you like it!
> 
> This fic is also what happens when a Destiel writer takes her six-year-old to see Frozen 2.
> 
> A huge thank you to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), for her excellent beta work and her patient correction of what surely were dozens of mis-used dashes. 
> 
> This is a completed work that will post in 4 installments, on Thursdays and Mondays. Tonight's installment will include the prologue and first chapter. And be sure to check out the first chapter end notes for an announcement!

The scarlet scrap of fabric flares bright against the blue sky, climbing higher in sudden fits and bursts, dips and turns, even boldly blocking out the sun in a singular moment of glory before spinning abruptly and plummeting toward the waiting earth below. Castiel watches it crash into the ground. A moment later, the brave scrap begins its ascent anew, weaving and wobbling its way into the air. Crimson cloth bobs and twirls and Castiel moves with it, twisting and tilting as the fabric again tips perilously before pirouetting its way to the ground. Why does it fight the wind so?

A piercing squeal carries across the breeze, drawing Castiel’s attention away from the four-cornered red cloth. A trio of adolescent human girls shriek and squawk as the ink-covered papers they chase seem to jump and twirl with the breeze, always just out of reach. One unfortunate thing bends down, finally snatching up an errant page, but her triumphant shout turns to a muffled screech as her skirts blow up over her head. Castiel can hear his brothers’ laughter on the wind as the poor, flustered girl tips over into the mud.

“Cassie, come play with us,” they sing, but Castiel ignores them. As a wind elemental, it’s expected that he should be playful and mischievous like his two brothers, but Castiel has never shared Gabriel and Balthazar’s penchant for tormenting the village children. His mother also fails to approve of his brothers’ antics, not that she would approve of Castiel’s disinterest in humans any more so. No, his mother has interest in humanity aplenty, but her idea of “mischief” is more along the lines of ravishing their farmlands with a tornado or terrorizing the coastal villages with a hurricane than the petty pranks of Castiel’s siblings. As it is though, Naomi spends so much time admonishing his brothers that Castiel is left mostly to his own devices.

Whirling back to the flying fabric, Castiel is just in time to see it make yet another daring, but fruitless leap toward the sky. The ruby figure falls flat against the grass and Castiel watches as a small boy (he’s never been very good at estimating human ages) kneels, scooping it up with a sigh. 

“Why won’t you stay up?” he asks plaintively, casting grass-green eyes toward the sky where the cloth in his hands had sailed moments before. Beneath a field of sandy hair and arching artfully over the bridge his nose, a smattering of freckles cover the boy’s sun-kissed cheeks. Curious, Castiel leans in closer and a gust of wind nearly knocks the fabric square right out of the boy’s hands. Eyes widening in surprise and excitement, the boy leaps to his feet and, gathering a length of string that Castiel now notices is attached to the fabric by way of small wooden sticks, casts the cloth into the air again. Pulling the string taut, he runs in the opposite direction, looking over his shoulder to see the red material rising into the air. Castiel observes as, lips pursed in a concentrated pout, the boy tugs and pulls the string in different directions, causing the cloth to bow and bend with the breeze, not fighting it, Castiel realizes now, but trying to harness it instead. Entranced, Castiel sways as the fabric finally levels out, much higher in the sky than it’s yet been, serenely coasting in the distant air currents. 

“Mom! Dad! Look at my kite!” the boy shouts excitedly. Two human figures wave from a distance, acknowledging the boy’s apparent success. It’s then that Castiel hears a snicker on the wind and sees the child’s kite suddenly twist and pull, tangling itself in the string. The boy quickly attempts to reel the kite in, frantically wrapping the taut twine around the sturdy stick gripped in his small fist. The scarlet kite bucks and jumps, buffeted this way and that by gusts too coordinated to be natural. 

Castiel whips around the boy, setting the hem of his flannel shirt a-flutter and ruffling the hair by his ears when he leans in over a small shoulder, as if he could add his strength to the boy’s struggle with the windswept kite. Eyes locked on the proud red diamond in the sky, they watch in unison as the kite bows, then abruptly folds when the central rod snaps in half. He’s too far away to hear the snap, but Castiel does hear the boy’s sudden wail.

“Nooo!”

Hissing, Castiel launches himself over the boy’s shoulder, causing the young thing to stumble under the force of his sudden gale. Soaring upward, he cuts sharply across his brother’s airstream, freeing the kite from his airtight grip. 

“Cassie, what are you doing?” Gabriel blusters, shocked. Castiel may not participate in his brothers’ pranks on the humans, but he’s certainly never _interfered_ either. 

Ignoring him, Castiel glides after the falling kite, swirling beneath it, cushioning its descent as best he can. They drift gently toward the ground before settling lightly on the grass. 

The boy lifts the broken kite in his hands, sniffling quietly as the first tear escapes his welling eyes. The leaves on the nearby poplar tree tilt quizzically as Castiel reaches toward the boy, drying his tear-stained cheeks with a warm puff of air. The frayed edges of the kite ruffle in the boy’s hands as Castiel stretches toward it, gently tugging it out of the boy’s loose grasp. Castiel curls himself under and around the kite, pulling it up and about, until the red fabric is hovering at the boy’s eye level. If the child notices that his kite is acting rather bizarrely and is, in fact, denying the laws of nature altogether, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he laughs, and Castiel preens at the reaction. He dances with the broken kite—dipping, bobbing, twirling to the delighted giggles of the green-eyed boy in the soft flannel shirt. 

Feeling rather mischievous, possibly for the first time in his existence, Castiel coaxes a flurry of fallen leaves and flower petals into the air with the kite. They swirl around the kite like coordinated confetti, glimmering in the afternoon sunshine and the tinkling laugh of a happy child. The boy stops still, his jade eyes going wide and round.

“Whoa,” he whispers.

“Dean,” calls a deep voice from the other side of a nearby hill, “time to go, son.” 

Castiel freezes, the kite and leaves drifting slowly to the ground.

The boy, _Dean_ , shakes himself, stooping to scoop up the now-still kite. He takes one last wide-eyed look around the quiet field, then trots off over the hill, the tail of the red kite trailing behind him.


	2. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for warnings.

Dean visits the hill quite often in the coming months. He doesn’t bring the red kite again, but he does bring others. Bright strips of fabric or paper in an assortment of colors—emerald green, sapphire blue, daffodil yellow and some that are combinations of several colors at once. Regardless of color, shape, or size, Castiel dances with the kites. Far from the earth, he sails with them, wheeling through the blue blue sky before taking them into sudden, daring dives and bold loop-de-loops to the gleeful whoops and shouts of the boy below.

Wind is inquisitive and quick-learning by nature, rattling shutters and finding its way into every crack and crevice, no matter how thoroughly stopped up they seem to be. As such, Castiel learns quite a bit about his new companion in a short time. Dean is six years old. He is the oldest son of John and Mary Winchester, his pudgy baby brother, Sam, a source of both great amusement and great frustration. He goes to school now, whatever that is, but doesn’t care for it, preferring to spend his time building and flying his kites. Though fascinated with flight, Dean is afraid of heights, a bemusing fact Castiel discovered when one of Dean’s kites (the violet one with the canary yellow tail) got caught in a tree. Dean had attempted to climb the tree to retrieve it, but only made it a few branches up before freezing, too frightened to climb any higher. Castiel had floated upward through the branches, tousling both the leaves and Dean’s straw-colored hair as he gave the kite an airy nudge, dislodging it from the poplar tree.

Dean spends nearly every afternoon with Castiel, unless of course, it’s raining, at which times Dean remains inside, staring sulkily out his bedroom window. Castiel attempts to amuse them both by finding the largest objects he can blow by Dean’s windowpane. The neighbor’s tabby cat was a personal favorite of both boy and sprite. 

Though Dean seems to be increasingly aware that there is something not strictly…normal about the constant breeze disheveling his hair and billowing his shirt sleeves (apparently this caused a bit of an uproar with Mrs. Winchester when Dean’s teacher complained about the state of his appearance), he never acknowledges Castiel’s existence. At least, not until the fire.

Castiel is relaxing on a crisp fall night, floating above the pond on the outskirts of town, admiring the way the still water reflects the moon—an almost perfect match to the glowing orb above, and yet made from something entirely different—when the breeze finds him, carrying distant shouts and the acrid smell of scorched wood. A growing sensation of dread rushes alongside Castiel as he follows the pungent draught. He stops short when he comes upon the Winchester house, alight with flames, their orange-red glow casting wicked shadows on the darkened earth. 

Whipping around the house, blowing sparks this way and that, Castiel searches frantically for Dean, fluttering helplessly in relief when he spots his friend hauling pudgy baby Samuel out of the burning building. That relief is short-lived, however, as he watches Dean rush back into the house. A moment later, John Winchester joins Sam in the yard, coughing and conducting his own frantic search for his oldest son. Blowing by John, Castiel rushes into the house. He doesn’t have to go any farther than the family room to find the remaining two Winchesters. Castiel stills, taking in the scene before him.

“Alastair.”

The fire demon looks up at Castiel with molten yellow eyes, grinning wickedly before returning to his game, leaping gleefully between Dean and Mary, the wall of flame separating mother and son growing higher with every bound. 

“Run, Dean,” Mary orders, but Dean ignores her, looking desperately for a way through the flames. Brave, stupid child. A sudden groan sounds from above, followed by a sharp crack. Boy, woman, and spirit look up simultaneously, but Castiel is the only one who can see Alastair gripping the ceiling in his blazing grasp and tearing it asunder. The roof begins to cave in and Mary spins, eyes looking through Castiel as she pleads with the spirits, “Please, save him.” 

As he watches Mary Winchester fall, a fierce, burning feeling of protectiveness, forged in this hell-spawned fire, gusts over Castiel. He dives for Dean, cushioning the boy’s fall as his small form crumples to the floor. The hair on Dean’s brow flutters as Castiel blows back the heavy black smoke attempting to smother the small boy. He forces it back, out, away—billowing against the darkness, a tempest raging within the remains of the Winchester family room, creating a clean, clear pocket of air around the unconscious child. Coughing harshly, Dean’s eyes blink open and he stares in wonder at the whirlwind of soot and ash swirling around them as Castiel holds the thick black smoke at bay. He has no idea how long they stay like that, but stay they do until strong arms reach into their protective cocoon and scoop up the fallen boy, carrying Dean to safety.

It’s many weeks before Dean returns to their hill, carrying a kite made of pale blue silk. He doesn’t move to launch the kite skyward as he has so many times before, but instead heads for the nearby copse of trees, seating himself at the base of a sturdy poplar. Castiel keeps his distance, just as he has ever since the night of the fire. He’s visited Dean, of course, watching through the windows of the Winchesters’ new home on the other side of town as Dean lay, recovering, in his bed. He’d kept vigil the day of Mary Winchester’s funeral, calming the feisty winds around the graveyard and keeping them to a gentle breeze. He’d whipped by Dean’s window with the swirling winter snows, but hadn’t been brave enough to come any closer. He doesn’t know why he’s afraid to get close to his self-appointed charge, only that he is and that something is different now. Something has changed. 

“Are you there?” Dean’s whisper mingles with the soft breeze on the hilltop. “Are you real?”

Castiel freezes and the hilltop falls still. Is Dean speaking to _him_? Dean’s never spoken to him before, never given any indication that he knows Castiel exists at all. The boy looks around at the unmoving grasses and leaves surrounding them and Castiel realizes his mistake too late. Dean doesn’t say anything though, just sits there quietly for a long while, then…

“It was her favorite,” he says softly, fidgeting with the kite in his hands, “the dress I mean, not the kite. I only saw her wear it once, to Sammy’s baptism. Dad’d skin me alive if he knew I cut it up.”

Despite himself, Castiel moves closer, the grass by Dean’s feet rustling in the breeze. The laces on Dean’s shoes flutter and the boy exhales softly. 

“It is you. You’re real. You saved me.” 

Dean holds the kite out toward Castiel like an offering. The budding poplar leaves tremble as Castiel reaches for the robin’s egg-colored silk, lifting it delicately from Dean’s open palms. Dean watches in seeming awe as the dainty kite rises into the air, wobbling slightly with Castiel’s nerves. He hovers the kite right at Dean’s eye level, the same way he had the red kite, the first time they met. This feels different somehow. Castiel feels more vulnerable, more exposed, now that Dean knows this isn’t just some trick of the wind. The kite tilts to the side as he considers. Actually, he supposes this is some "trick of the wind" after all. 

“Whoa,” Dean whispers, much like he did that first afternoon, yet somehow, there’s _more_ to the word this time—an appreciation not only for the seemingly bewitched kite in front of him, but for the force, the _being_ behind the movement.

Feeling braver, Castiel lifts the kite higher still and gives it a twirl. Grinning, Dean bounds to his feet. Castiel and the pale blue kite circle the standing boy, gliding through playful loops and graceful arcs as Dean jumps and dances and spins, until at last he collapses on the hill, an exhausted pile of laughing boy. 

Castiel lets the kite drift downward and settles it gently in Dean’s lap, taking care not to mar Mary’s silk.

“Thanks,” Dean says and there’s more to that word, too.

Wind is, as previously stated, inquisitive by nature, which is perhaps how Castiel finds himself in Dean Winchester’s dreams, that first time. He and Dean have been spending nearly every afternoon together on their hill again, except that now, Dean _knows_ he is spending his afternoons with Castiel. Well, he knows he is spending his afternoons with _something_ , at least. 

When the poplar leaves turn green and the summer grasses grow tall and wild on the hill, Dean spends nearly every day with Castiel. Some days, it’s just Dean and Castiel and they fly Dean’s kites—Dean launching the kite in the air and tearing down the hill to create enough lift for the fabric to catch the wind and climb into the blue. On days when the natural wind is lacking, Castiel helps, of course. Sometimes, Castiel takes the kite through impossible barrel rolls, twists, and rings while Dean cheers. Other times, Dean pulls on the kite’s string in a way that makes the kite do its own loops and dives and Castiel twines himself around the kite, dancing with it in the sky. He isn’t sure which kind of day he likes the best.

Many days, Sam comes with Dean, toddling next to him up the hill with Dean’s hand on his back, making sure he doesn’t stumble and roll back down again (that only happened once, well, twice, but Castiel is pretty sure the second time was on purpose with as much as Dean laughed afterward). Castiel entertains Sam by making the dandelion seeds swirl and twirl and dance for the toddler, who is always delighted with the magic flowers, while Dean practices his kite tricks.

Other days, they don’t fly kites at all. Instead, Dean brings whatever new kite design he’s working on, sketching the soon-to-be kite or building it with sticks and string, each design seeming more complex than the one before. It’s on a day like this that Castiel finds himself watching Dean in fascination, leaning over the boy’s shoulder, his breeze tickling the strands of hair by Dean’s ear as the last few yellowed poplar leaves still clinging to the tree ripple curiously. 

The kite on the page looks like a giant bird, its two wings making up the majority of the kite, brightly colored feathers stretching out to each side and a broad tail flaring at the base. The feathers are all red, gold, and orange. Castiel can already tell this kite will look stunning against the blue backdrop of the sky. He curls around Dean’s arm to get a closer look at the feathers, fluttering the sketchbook page.

“You like this one, huh?” Dean asks with a smile, smoothing the drawing with his hand. “It’ll prolly be a long time before I’m good enough to build it, but the idea wouldn’t get outta my head. I saw a kite like this once, at a festival my dad took me to, back when I was little.” Castiel accepts this, ruffling the dried leaves on the ground next to Dean encouragingly. After all, Dean had explained to him that eight years old, is in fact, almost quite grown up. 

“I don’t think I’ll get to go to any more of those, though,” he adds sadly. “Dad doesn’t think I should waste my time with such little kid stuff anymore.” The poplar branches quiver indignantly. Apparently, eight years old is grown up, indeed.

“The kite I saw, though, that bird was a parrot. It had red, and blue, and green feathers. Mine’s a phoenix.” Dean whispers that last part and Castiel understands. A phoenix—a bird born and reborn of fire. It’s a fitting choice for his friend. Dean scratches at the red feathers with a dirty finger nail and sighs.

“Something about it doesn’t seem right still, but I’m not sure what.” Castiel reaches a comforting breeze toward his friend, who shivers as the cold air brushes his cheek, causing Castiel to back off at once. He sometimes forgets how sensitive humans are to temperature.

“Nah, it’s not your fault,” Dean soothes with a smile. “It’s just getting cold out, is all. It’ll be winter soon.” He looks at the sky sadly, “No more kite-flying for a while.” The poplar branches slump as Castiel imagines the long, Dean-less winter ahead.

“Hey,” the boy-in-question says excitedly, “could you come to my house? I mean, if you wanted to?” His green eyes look bright, but nervous. “It’s just, I won’t be able to go outside and play a lot this winter, what with Sam being so little and someone needin’ to watch him, but I thought maybe you could come in? Can you do that? I mean, I don’t really know how big you are. You could be the size of one of those big city buildings for all I know, but I mean, I guess you came inside that one night…” he trails off.

Eager to both distract his friend from melancholy memories and express his gratitude for the invitation, Castiel shimmies the overhanging poplar branches, sending a shower of golden leaves cascading down. Gathering the leaves, he sends them zipping playfully around Dean’s head and torso, chasing each other up Dean’s left arm and down his right, tumbling over one another as they finally settle around his feet.

Dean giggles. “I guess you like that idea too, huh?” he asks, which is how Castiel finds himself spending long winter evenings flying paper gliders around Dean’s bedroom and lazily spinning the colorful paper mobiles Dean crafts to entertain him. It’s also how he finds himself witness to Dean’s restless, nightmare-ridden sleep.

The first time he hears Dean whimpering and moaning in his sleep, Castiel creeps closer, worried about his friend. Dean looks very frightened, maybe even in pain, but he doesn’t seem to be waking up. Should Castiel wake him? A fearful shout makes Castiel’s mind up for him, though he might be a little overzealous in his desire to pull Dean out of whatever terrors plague his sleep. The gust he sends Dean’s way is so forceful, it almost tosses the boy to the floor.

“Wha? What’s wrong?” Dean asks, sitting bolt upright and ending up in a tangle of limbs and bed clothes. It would be humorous if Castiel weren’t still so frightened for his friend. 

Looking around, Dean’s eyes alight on the open pages of his sketchbook, trembling nervously on his nightstand. He relaxes and leans back against the headboard. 

“Oh, was I making noise?” The page flips over.

“It was just a nightmare. ‘S nothin’ to worry about. I get’em sometimes. My mom used to sit with me when they happened. She said sometimes if she got to me soon enough, they’d go away and I wouldn’t even wake up, but now…” He shrugs sadly. “Sorry if I scared you.”

Dean turns over to go back to sleep, but Castiel still feels unsettled. Dean sleeps peacefully for the rest of the night, but Castiel flits about the bedroom—rustling book pages, sending the delicate mobiles whirling, and scattering pencil shavings across the wooden floor in his worry.

The next time Dean has a nightmare, Castiel decides to try something different. Remembering what Dean said about how Mary had been able to calm his dreams without waking him, Castiel settles himself gently next to his friend. He sends a calming breath of air across Dean’s troubled brow, feeling satisfied when the wrinkles in Dean’s forehead smooth out. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” he whispers on the wind. “I’m here.”

“But who are you?”

Castiel starts and looks around him. They’re on their hilltop, but it’s daylight and everything is warm and green and lush, not brown and frozen the way it should be this time of year.

“You… you can see me?” Castiel looks at Dean, who’s watching him warily from beneath their poplar tree. 

“Of course, I can see you. You’re right there,” he says with a roll of his eyes, taking a step forward.

Castiel backs away hastily, feeling off-kilter at this sudden change in their dynamic. He’s only just gotten used to being _known_ . He’s never been _seen_ before.

As the tall summer grasses sway with Castiel’s movement, realization alights in Dean’s eyes.

“You’re the wind,” he breathes, then more excitedly, “You are! It’s you! You’re the wind! And you can talk. Do you have a name?”

“Of course, I can talk. I could always talk. You just couldn’t _hear_ ,” Castiel says, a little indignantly. “And my name is Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Dean says slowly. “Awesome. So, where are we? I mean, I know where we are, but how?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel answers carefully. “We were in your room. You were having a nightmare and I wanted to help you. My breeze touched your forehead and then… we were here.”

“So, am I still dreaming? Is this a dream?”

Castiel nods, which shouldn’t be possible, but is. “I think you must be.”

Dean’s face falls, “So, if this is just a dream, does that mean it’s not real? You’re not really here?”

The brow Castiel shouldn’t have wrinkles. “This certainly feels real to me… and I don’t dream.”

“You don’t?” Dean’s previously sad expression has turned to one of curiosity now and Castiel is glad. He hates to see his friend sad.

Smiling fondly, which should feel strange since Castiel has never smiled before but here feels as natural as blowing through the treetops, he answers, “The wind doesn’t sleep, Dean.”

Moving feet that can’t possibly belong to him, Castiel takes a step toward the boy across the hilltop, hearing a whooshing sound with ears that have never heard before now as he feels an equally impossible unfurling sensation behind him.

“Whoa,” Dean breathes, his voice possessing as much awe as it had the day of the blue silk kite. “You have _wings._ ”

“I do?” Castiel turns his non-head in an attempt to look behind him, but finds sees only the lush hilltop and the horizon in the distance. Turning back around and looking down, he finds only grass and tiny yellow wildflowers being visited by busy bumblebees. “It seems that I can’t see them,” he says, feeling only a little put out.

“Oh, well, they’re big. Huge even. And they’re black.” Dean creeps closer. “But no, not _just_ black. They get all shiny in the sunlight and turn purple, and blue, and green.” The boy circles around Castiel, staring in wonder.

Feeling suddenly nervous under Dean’s awed scrutiny, Castiel attempts to distract his friend. “I’m glad you like them, but we probably only have a few hours until you wake up.”

“Oh, right. So, what do you wanna do?” Before Castiel has a chance to answer, Dean snaps his fingers. “I know,” an elaborate green and blue striped kite appears in Dean’s hands, “I’m going to teach you how to fly a kite.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Dean, I know how to fly a kite,” he says flatly. 

The green-eyed boy grins. “Not the human way.”

Castiel’s curious nature gets the best of him and he finds himself taking the twine-wrapped spool in his hands, letting Dean guide him in how to launch the kite in the air and running alongside his friend as they attempt to get the kite airborne.

To Dean’s great amusement, Castiel is terrible at flying a kite “the human way.”

“This is _your_ dream world,” Castiel says grumpily. “I think you’re making me bad at this on purpose.”

Dean lifts himself off the ground, where he’d collapsed in giggles as Castiel’s kite took yet another nose dive into the grass-covered hilltop. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says solemnly. Castiel raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Okay, I would,” Dean grins, “But I don’t know how.” Well, _that_ Castiel believes.

Dean leans down to tie his shoe during Castiel’s next kite-flying attempt and Castiel takes the opportunity to shoot a discrete gust of wind underneath the kite, pushing it upwards.

“Hey,” Dean says, coming to stand next to him, “I saw that, you cheater.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Castiel lies, but he knows Dean can see his lips twitch. They stay like that, watching the kite soar with the clouds, long into the night.

They’ve passed months like this, playing and laughing together all day on their hilltop or in Dean’s room until it’s time for bed, then again in Dean’s dreams until it’s time for him to wake, when Dean asks him, “So, are there others like you?”

“Other wind spirits or spirits in general?” Castiel asks and Dean shrugs.

“Both, I guess.”

So, lying side-by-side in the tall grass, Castiel tells Dean about his brothers and the other elementals. Dean seems to find Gabriel and Balthazar’s pranks far more amusing than Castiel ever has and he’s fascinated with the stories of the temperamental water spirits who sink the ships of men and lure them to their deaths with their siren-song. Castiel skirts the topic of fire elementals as deftly as he can, telling Dean instead about the gentle and wise earth spirits, who are known to be the oldest of their kind.

“How old _are_ you?” Dean asks quizzically, as if it has only now occurred to him that Castiel must have an age.

Castiel tilts his head to the side, because, in fact, this is the first time it’s ever occurred to _Castiel_ that he must have an age. 

“I’m not sure,” he says at last. “I know I am the youngest in my family and am considered very young by most of the other spirits I’ve met.” He says this last part rather grumpily, having long ago grown tired of being treated as younger and lesser by his kin.

“Are you a child?” Dean asks and Castiel thinks about how his kin treat him, in comparison to how he’s seen older humans act with Dean.

“Yes,” he says at last. “I am a child. Like you.” A sudden thought occurs to him.

“How old do I look?”

Dean studies him for a moment. “You look the same age as me.”

Another thought occurs to Castiel and he suddenly can’t believe he hasn’t asked before. Even though he _knows_ he has a body here, presumably one created by Dean’s imagination, Castiel still has never been able to see himself. When he looks to where his mind tells him his hands and feet should be, he sees nothing there and other than that first time when Dean expressed such surprise at his wings, they’ve never spoken about Castiel’s appearance.

“Dean, what do I look like?”

Dean rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow to get a better look at Castiel, who copies the position.

“You’re about the same height as me, but you’re skinnier. You have really pale skin, like _really_ pale. You should get some sun, man.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I think any color of skin at all is fairly impressive for someone who doesn’t normally _have_ skin, Dean.”

His friend grins before continuing, “Your hair is light brown and wavy. It looks constantly messy, too, like it’s been blowing in the wind.” Castiel grins at that.

“And your eyes. They’re blue, like the sky.” Dean pauses, looking into Castiel’s eyes, “ _Exactly_ like the sky.”

Castiel nods and lies back on the grass, satisfied with this description of his appearance. Dean lies back and nudges him with his elbow, chuckling when Castiel does it back.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Dean says, shaking his head, “Just how it feels like when you touch me here, even though you have hands and arms.”

“How does it feel?” Castiel asks, curious.

Dean shrugs. “Feels like the wind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canonical character death by fire 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the beginning of this little sprite story! It was just so lovely to write!
> 
> Now, for my announcement! If you happen to enjoy my stories and have an idea you'd like me to write just for you, while also helping to raise money for an excellent cause, I've signed up for not one, but TWO different charity auctions!
> 
> I'm offering a 10,000 to 20,000 word fanfic for the [Fandom Trumps Hate](https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/) auction, to raise funds for [GLSEN](https://www.glsen.org/), [RAINN](https://www.rainn.org/), [Unsilence](https://www.unsilence.org/), or [Random Acts](https://www.randomacts.org/).
> 
> I'm also offering a 5,000 to 20,000 word fanfic for the [Fandom For Australia](https://fandomforoz.tumblr.com/faq.html) auction, to benefit your choice of charities supporting the Australian bush fire relief efforts.
> 
> Browsing week for both auctions is next week, with bidding opening the week following. The next update for this story will be up on Monday and I'll post direct links to both auction pages then. So many amazing authors and artists to choose from!
> 
> In the meantime, if you'd like to reblog this story on Tumblr, you can do so [here](https://a-mandala-rose.tumblr.com/post/190816306004/title-feels-like-the-wind-rating-mature)!


	3. Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

“I’ve put up with this long enough, Dean. It’s time for you to grow the hell up, boy. You can’t hide up there on that hilltop forever, playing with your kites. You know what the people in town say about you? They say you’re crazy. That you hear voices in the wind. I’m beginnin’ to think they might be right. Dean? Dean, you get your ass back here! I’m not finished with you!”

Dean storms out of the Winchester home, the door slamming in his wake. Arms laden with his sketchbook and a large, eggplant-purple kite, he barrels toward their hilltop, swiping at his eyes with his flannel sleeve. Castiel rushes alongside him, Dean’s shirttails whipping back and forth in the furious wind.

He hurtles up the hilltop, throwing himself down onto the grass at the foot of the poplar tree. Drying his eyes on his shirtsleeves again, Dean lets out a shaky exhale before flipping his sketchbook open. Castiel stays back, anxiously observing his friend. It’s been many seasons now since he and Dean met. Sam has grown from a chubby baby, to a pudgy child, to a lanky youth. Dean too, has changed over the years. He’s much taller now and bears only a passing resemblance to the scrappy boy he’d once been. He still favors flannel shirts, but now those flannels have filled out with broad shoulders and hard, lean muscles that coil and stretch in turn as Dean moves. While his torso has thickened, his once round face has thinned out, sharp angles and coarse scruff replacing the softness of childhood. Even the hair that Castiel still likes to ruffle has changed, growing darker with time. The only feature that remains entirely unchanged are Dean’s eyes. They’re the same summer-green Castiel remembers from the day they met, though these days they seem to hold more tension and less mirth than they once did.

Dean opens to the page holding the latest iteration of the phoenix kite. Though he’s kept going back to it over the years, Dean has never deemed the design satisfactory. He fusses over it for several minutes, drawing and erasing, turning the sketchbook this way and that, before finally ripping the page out with a growl.

“It’s still not right,” he shouts, balling the paper up and throwing it down the hill. The sketchbook he shuts roughly before tossing it on the ground next to the poplar tree. 

Castiel sidles up to his friend, reaching out to touch his cheek comfortingly. Dean turns his face into the breeze, letting out a deep sigh, before tilting his head back against the rough bark of the poplar.

“He’s right, you know. About what they say about me in town. Too many people have seen me talkin’ to someone who’s not there. ‘That’s Dean Winchester,’ they whisper when they think I can’t hear’em, ‘the boy who talks to the wind. Ain’t been right in the head since his mom died in that fire.’” Dean’s voice is hard and bitter and it makes Castiel draw back. The branches of the poplar tree droop, leaves quivering. Castiel never meant to make Dean’s life harder.

“Hey now,” Dean whispers, looking up at the wilting branches. “None of that. ‘S not your fault, Cas. It doesn’t matter what they say. You’re the best damn thing about this place. You and Sammy.” The poplar leaves twitter with Castiel’s pleased embarrassment and Dean chuckles.

“C’mon, let’s try out my new kite.” Dean stands and stretches, the hem of his flannel rising up to reveal a sliver of taut abdominal muscle beneath. Dean bends to pick up the eggplant kite, lifting it up for Castiel’s inspection. Castiel sighs to himself. Dean’s been experimenting with different kite-building materials, and already Castiel can tell the cloth he’s used for the long, golden tail is going to be too heavy for the lightweight purple kite. It’ll never fly. Castiel lifts the kite tail to Dean’s eye level, then tugs it sharply away from the kite.

“What? You don’t like it? Give it a chance,” Dean says.

Again, Castiel tugs at the kite tail, giving Dean his own gusty shove to get his point across. 

“Hey, knock it off. You don’t know, it might work,” Dean insists, pulling the kite out of Castiel’s windstream. Castiel huffs and backs away. Earthbound creatures are so stubborn.

He watches Dean attempt to launch the kite several times with no success before carrying the kite into the sky himself, then letting it go and watching it plummet to the earth, just to prove his point.

He coasts back down to the ground, where Dean takes the kite and collapses onto the grass with a disgruntled huff of his own. Castiel settles next to him, the grasses bowing gently beneath him, before shooting a puff of air in Dean’s direction and flipping the bulky kite tail up into his face.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says with a laugh, “I get it. Don’t argue aerodynamics with the wind.”

The clover petals surrounding them flutter in satisfaction.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t be smug,” Dean grumbles, but he’s smiling. Castiel feels a fluttering sensation that he’s pretty sure has nothing to do with the wind.

The next morning, Castiel idly twirls one of the new mobiles Dean has created while he waits for his friend to awaken. Like Dean himself, the mobiles he crafts have become increasingly complex over the years, with intricate spirals and delicate spinning figures – sometimes many-sided shapes, other times butterflies, bees, or carefully drawn leaves.

Dean stirs in his bed, letting out a low groan that captures Castiel’s attention. The sheet slides down his bare chest with his movement, pooling across his hips while exposing the well-defined muscles of his stomach. 

The mobile twirls faster.

“Cas,” Dean moans quietly.

Wind… is inquisitive by nature. Castiel drifts across the room to Dean’s bed, hovering over his still sleeping form. Unconsciously, he reaches for Dean, a soft breeze skirting along his bare skin. Dean shivers, though the warm summer sun shining through the window means it’s far from cool in the bedroom. 

A tremor passes through the open pages of Dean’s sketchbook as Castiel watches the man’s skin erupt in goosebumps beneath his drafty caress.

Dean’s breath catches and green eyes blink open. 

“Cas?” he breathes. Castiel reaches again for the man in front of him, a light draught tracing along Dean’s cheek. However, instead of moving into the breeze the way he usually does, Dean recoils, a blush spreading prettily from his cheeks down his chest.

Scooting back toward the headboard and gathering the pooled sheets in his lap, Dean stammers, “I… uh… I need the bathroom.” Rising, he tucks the bedsheet securely around his waist and hurries toward the hall. Castiel doesn’t follow. Wind is inquisitive, but Dean had long ago explained to him the importance of human things like “privacy” and “personal space.”

After that morning, Castiel senses a change in his friendship with Dean. It’s much like the change he felt when Dean first realized that Castiel was, well, Castiel. He’s felt a bond with Dean since the first time he looked into those green eyes, but now that bond feels deeper somehow, more intimate, more profound. He thinks Dean must sense the change too. He spends much more time _looking_ at Castiel when they meet in his dreams now, often looking away and blushing when he thinks Castiel has spotted him. He spends so much time looking, in fact, that Castiel eventually asks him about it.

“Do I look different?”

“Wh–what?” Dean squeaks, eyes widening in surprise. They’re sitting side-by-side on their hilltop, backs against the old poplar tree.

“You look quite different than you did when we first met,” Castiel points out. “Have I changed as well?”

“Oh,” Dean says, looking strangely relieved. “Um, yeah, you have.”

“What do I look like?” he inquires, curious to see how he’s changed in Dean’s eyes, since he’s fairly certain his form here is based on how Dean imagines him to look… how Dean _wants_ him to look.

“Well, um, you still look the same age as me. You’re just about my height still, too. Maybe a couple of inches shorter and your wings are still that same pretty iridescent black color.” Dean blushes. “Your arms and legs are a lot more muscular now. You look pretty built for a dude who doesn’t do any manual labor,” Dean teases. Castiel narrows his eyes.

“I’ll have you know, the wind can be devastatingly strong, Dean. I am a force of nature, after all.”

“Yeah,” Dean swallows, “I know.”

Clearing his throat, he continues, “You have a jawline that could cut glass and a constant five o’clock shadow. And you’ve got a smile like you know something I don’t.”

Castiel smirks. “I know many things you don’t.”

Dean rolls his eyes and nudges Castiel before going on, “Your hair though, it’s longer now and darker, but it still looks like a windblown mess.” Both men grin.

“Is that all?”

“Almost,” Dean says, looking into Castiel’s eyes. “Your eyes, they’re still the color of the sky.”

Feeling that familiar flutter that he only feels around Dean, Castiel smiles softly. “Yours have always reminded me of the earth. The grass.”

Dean leans forward. “Then I guess we’re supposed to meet at the horizon.”

Closing the distance between them, he presses their lips together. 

The kiss is soft and brief. When Dean pulls away, he looks at Castiel, who asks, “What?”

“Just always wondered how it would feel to kiss you here.”

“How does it feel?”

Dean smiles sadly.

“Feels like the wind.”

“Dean, that tickles.”

“You mean… this?” The arm wrapped around a trim waist gives another squeeze and dark, curly hair bounces as the girl squeals again.

“Dean Winchester!”

“Okay, okay,” Dean chuckles as they continue to walk down the gravel road. “I won’t do it again.”

Castiel trails behind the couple at a safe distance. He doesn’t think Dean would appreciate knowing he’s observing his date, though he’s not sure why. Lately, Dean has felt… distant. The boy Castiel once knew so well seems to have all but disappeared, replaced by a man that is in so many ways a mystery.

Dean spends more time with his schoolmates now, telling Castiel it’s important to make friends his own age. Important to fit in. After all, he has to set a good example for Sam.

They still share many days together, sitting on their hilltop during both Dean’s waking and sleeping hours, but Dean spends less and less time bent over his sketchbook or staring up at his fabric and string creations in the sky. 

He spends even less time staring at Castiel. Castiel misses the feel of Dean’s eyes on him with a sharpness that surprises him. Before he met Dean, no mortal creature had ever beheld Castiel, and he’d never felt the lack, but now Castiel has learned that there is an acute difference between being invisible and feeling unseen.

“I had a good time tonight,” the girl says softly as they round the bend in the gravel path and a small, dark house appears, its windows drawn and shuttered against the chill night air.

“Yeah, me too, Cassie,” Dean says, stopping and releasing his grip on Cassie’s waist. Hands in his pockets, he offers her a smile of his own. “I’m sorry it’s over.”

“Who says it’s over?” she asks coyly and Dean’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Cassie tugs him behind the shelter of a large poplar tree lining the drive and wraps slim brown arms around Dean’s neck.

The golden leaves on the sturdy poplar quiver indignantly, the cool autumn breeze picking up speed as Dean dips his head to meet Cassie’s lips with his own.

This kiss is not soft, like the one he and Castiel shared some weeks ago now. Nor is it brief. As Dean pulls Cassie in tighter, moving further into her space and pressing her against the smooth pale bark of the poplar tree, the leaves begin to shake and tremble.

Dean’s tongue parts Cassie’s crimson-painted lips. Fading burnt mustard leaves break from the tree and churn around the couple.

“It’s getting windy,” Cassie whispers against Dean’s lips. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he answers, pulling her scarlet mouth back to his.

Dean’s hand slips beneath Cassie’s loose white blouse, sliding upward and drawing a moan that suitably distracts Cassie from the roiling leaves. Branches bow under the force of the wind.

Cassie slips a knee between Dean’s legs. The branches whip across the stormy, cloud-covered sky above.

Dean utters his own moan in return. “Mmm… Cas.”

A resounding _crack_ echoes through the night. 

Coming back to himself and realizing his error just in time, Castiel pushes a gust of wind between the couple, sending them both sprawling as a heavy limb comes crashing down between them.

The copse goes still.

“What the fuck, Castiel!” Dean shouts, jumping to his feet.

“Dean? What the hell was that?” Cassie asks, voice tinged with fear as she scrambles upright. Dean offers her a hand, but she cringes away.

Castiel watches helplessly.

“Cassie, please,” Dean pleads. “I can explain.”

“Explain what? That you’re a freak? No, you’re not just a freak. You’re some kind of… of witch!” The fear edges into panic as Cassie backs away from Dean, stumbling and slipping in her haste.

“Cassie,” Dean tries again, reaching to help, but she scrambles away.

“Stay away from me,” the girl calls behind her as she takes off at a run for the safety of the shuttered house.

“ _Fuck.”_

Dean is silent on the way back to his house. Castiel follows, the trodden brown grass beneath Dean’s boots shivering timidly.

Dean stops outside the door to the Winchester home.

“I know you’re there, Cas.” The night falls still.

“I,” Dean takes a shuddering breath. “I can’t _do_ this anymore. I don’t know what you want from me. I have to grow up. I have responsibilities and I can’t spend my whole life being that crazy freak who sits on the hilltop and talks to the wind.” 

His voice is quieter, sadder when he whispers, “I can’t keep wanting something impossible.” 

He pauses.

“I’m going inside to _sleep_ now.”

Taking Dean’s emphasis on the word _sleep_ for the dismissal it is, Castiel retreats to the pond on the edge of town.

In the morning, Dean is gone, his sketchbook and kites left behind. Like Castiel.

Time passes. 

How much time, Castiel really couldn’t say. He’d never really had a concept of time before Dean and he’d come to gauge the passage of days, weeks, and years by the darkening of Dean’s hair, the strengthening of his muscles, the increase in the number of freckles mapping his nose and cheekbones. Without these landmarks to ground him, Castiel finds himself unable to tether his thoughts to the earth long enough to measure the fleeting seasons in any meaningful way. 

He drifts.

“Cassie, come play with us,” his brothers whine and wheedle, but Castiel ignores them, as usual. 

“You’re even more dull now than you were _before_ you attached yourself to the little human. And that’s saying something,” complains Balthazar.

His brothers twitter and taunt and cajole. Naomi rails and blusters about things like _responsibility_ and _duty_ , but Castiel finds himself unable to muster up even the faintest breath of concern. 

“Fine, Cassie, if you miss him so much, why don’t you just go _find_ him? It’s not natural for a sprite to be so still,” Gabriel huffs, nearly blowing over the newly bloomed daffodils next to the poplar tree. Wind isn’t known for its patience at the best of times and Gabriel has seldom concerned himself with being the _best_ at anything, aside from causing trouble. 

“He _left_ , Gabriel. After sending me away. Clearly, Dean doesn’t want me following him. It’s best if I just wait here.” Castiel never seems to find himself far from their hilltop. It’s his last connection to Dean. “Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, darling.” Balthazar sweeps in, a rush of fluttering pear blossoms in his wake. “I have a surprise for you,” the eager sprite sing-songs.

Castiel makes a weak attempt at feigning interest for his brother’s sake. A few tender blades of new grass give half-hearted wobbles before falling still again.

“I’m glad to see you’re so grateful,” Balthazar says drily and if wind had eyes, Castiel is fairly certain Balthazar would be rolling his, the way Dean used to do.

“Maybe I will be, if you ever actually get around to telling me what this ‘surprise’ is,” Castiel retorts, though he doubts it. A surprise from one of his brothers is rarely a good thing and usually ends with someone shrieking as they try to figure out just how exactly the wind managed to blow _that_ up _there._

“I know where _Dean_ is,” Balthazar taunts triumphantly.

“How,” Castiel asks suspiciously, the suddenly shivering leaf buds overhead giving away his interest.

“I asked around,” Balthazar says casually. “Really, Cassie darling, for as much time as you’ve spent amongst the humans, you don’t know much about them, do you?’

“I know Dean,” Castiel responds stubbornly, the grasses on the hilltop fluttering indignantly.

“Well then, perhaps you won’t be surprised to learn that in this town, a human of Dean’s age would be expected to begin his trade. If, instead of learning a trade, that human had, say, spent his youth making people think he was crazy by building kites and talking to invisible wind spirits who are in love with him, he wouldn’t really have a lot of options.”

The budding leaves overhead rustle dangerously, though Castiel doesn’t bother to deny Balthazar’s claim about his being in love with Dean. Love may be a human emotion, but Castiel can’t think of any other term that even comes close to describing how he feels about Dean. “Balthazar…”

“Yes, yes, to the point. In this area, most young men without a trade head for the coast, where they find work on the docks or the fishing boats. I couldn’t find Dean on the docks, ergo your beloved is on a boat.”

“Then he could be anywhere,” Castiel pouts.

“Ah, but who do we know that makes a point of knowing the exact location of every ship on the sea?”

“And _why_ exactly would the water nymphs give you any information? Our cold-hearted cousins aren’t exactly known for their hospitality,” Gabriel points out shrewdly.

“True…” Baltazhar hedges, drawing out the word. “They were a bit testy at first, but they perked right up when I told them about our dear, heartbroken Cassie and his pet human.”

The leaves still.

“Balthazar, you didn’t.”

The bumblebees Gabriel had been idly playing with suddenly find themselves in control of their flight again, wasting no time in making a speedy retreat toward the safety of their hive in the tall branches of the poplar. “Oh dear.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel growls. The delicate buds cling to the branches of the poplar tree as they whip back and forth. “Tell me you didn’t just inform the _sirens_ that a man who has wronged someone in love is currently sailing their seas.”

“Ah. Well.” The acorns Balthazar had been casually juggling tumble to the hilltop. “When you put it like that, perhaps we’d better hurry.”

They find the fishing boat in the location the water nymphs relayed to Balthazar, but by the time they arrive, it’s already embroiled in an unnatural tempest. The large, steel ship tips and tilts dangerously, the faded lettering along its side dipping below the surface as it’s rocked by wave after wave of salty water. Frenzied fishermen scurry across the deck, securing nets and equipment as they struggle to keep from being tossed to the waiting sirens below, circling the ship like hungry sharks. 

The sirens are expected, of course, but Castiel halts in shock as he looks beyond the bow of the slanting ship and sees someone he did not anticipate.

“Naomi.”

“Hester must have told her about Dean. You know how she feels about humans, Cassie.” Gabriel doesn’t try to stop Castiel as he rushes toward Naomi, but neither does he follow.

“Mother,” Castiel pleads as he reaches the elder sprite, “stop this. Please.”

“Castiel,” her baleful tone echoes across the raging sky, “you’ve forgotten your duty, letting yourself become entangled with this _human_ .” The vitriol in that single word hits Castiel like searing steam. “I can fix that,” Naomi continues confidently and Castiel keens as the ship pitches sharply, nearly capsizing in churning gray water. “I can fix _you_.”

“NO!” Soaring between his mother and the fishing boat, Castiel forces her gale away from the ship, which quickly rights itself, the tiny humans on board grappling for purchase on the slippery, jolting deck. Searching frantically for Dean, Castiel nearly sighs when he spots the kite-maker, gripping tightly to a fishing net on the port-side of the vessel. His relief is short-lived, however. With Naomi’s winds neutralized, his water-born cousins have redoubled their efforts, surging against the boat in an attempt to dislodge its mortal passengers.

“Please,” Castiel pleads futilly with his mother, “I love him.”

“I know,” Naomi’s voice is as cold as the bitter wind pressing against Castiel, “and that is why he cannot be allowed to live. His death is on _you_ , Castiel. Perhaps next time you’ll think before you betray your own kind.”

Helpless, Castiel watches as the fishing boat gives a sharp lurch on the next wave and Dean’s fingers finally slip from the rope net, plunging him into the roiling waters below. 

Hurtling toward the turbulent sea, Castiel vaguely hears his brothers calling out after him as he’s immersed in the frothing ocean water. Propelling himself toward Dean, who’s struggling frantically toward the water’s surface, he sees Anna, one of his frigid, ocean-dwelling cousins, reaching for Dean with her siren-song. As he’s engulfed in Anna’s soothing melody, Dean’s muscles go lax. He stops all attempts at escape, at survival, and the light dims from his eyes as he’s lulled further into the deep.

“No! Dean!” Castiel flies through the water, but he already knows he won’t be fast enough. 

“Release him,” he roars, the murky ocean water churning around him, an underwater whirlwind of Castiel’s fury forcing its way between Anna and Dean. Hester watches from a distance, haughty and imperious, as Anna casts a mournful look toward Castiel.

“It’s too late,” she answers solemnly, but she backs away nonetheless, Dean’s body sinking toward the distant ocean floor now that it’s been released from the siren’s grip.

“No,” Castiel whispers, “It can’t be.” Finally reaching the steadily sinking human, he wraps himself around Dean, halting his descent. 

“Dean?” The kite-maker’s freckled skin is ashen, his full lips tinged icy blue. The eyes that normally remind Castiel of a bright summer’s day are dull and lifeless. 

“I am sorry, cousin.” Castiel barely hears Hannah’s murmured apology. He ignores her until finally she turns away, looking back once before following Anna and Hester as the sirens retreat into the depths. 

No. This can’t be happening. Castiel has no idea how long he’s existed, but he knows exactly how long he’s been alive. He started living the moment a stubborn, grassy-eyed boy cast his crimson kite into a sapphire sky and harnessed the wind. Castiel has been ensnared by the kite maker ever since and if Dean dies today, the wind dies with him. 

What does Dean need? Dean needs air. Dean needs the wind.

Castiel enters Dean, winding his way into Dean’s nose and mouth, forcing the icy saltwater from his airways as he goes. He clears the fluid from Dean’s lungs, filling them with air instead. Moving with the oxygen into Dean’s bloodstream, Castiel wraps himself around the kite maker’s heart, compressing it, moving the life-giving air throughout Dean’s body.

_Wind is inquisitive._

Castiel moves with Dean’s blood, traveling throughout the human’s body, exploring every cell, investigating every atom.

_And quick-learning._

He may not have names for them, but Castiel learns about organs, muscle, and bone. He learns how tiny individual cells align and arrange themselves to build skeleton and skin. He learns how muscle and sinew connect to bone: how legs and arms and fingers bend and move and grasp. He learns exactly how many freckles cover Dean’s outside.

As color begins to return to Dean’s gray-hued skin, Castiel leaves the kite maker’s body the way he came, using his newfound knowledge to create a body part of his own: a hand. A hand that clutches Dean’s shoulder tight in its grip and hauls him up from the ocean’s depths. 

Keeping an iron-fisted grip on Dean’s arm that’s certain to leave a mark, Castiel uses his remaining energy to propel them both toward the shore, leaving the capsized fishing boat behind them. Releasing Dean once they’re safe on the sandy beach, Castiel hovers above the young man. 

Dean’s lips are now more pink than blue, and they grow rosier as the man begins to cough and splutter, pulling in deep, shaky gulps of air. Castiel smooths back the hair on Dean’s forehead, the same way he used to do when a younger Dean was haunted by night terrors.

Face scrunching in confusion, Dean’s coughing subsides and he whispers hoarsely, “Cas?” 

Dean opens his eyes… and looks into empty, blue sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Very brief Dean/Cassie, Temporary MCD by drowning
> 
> Thanks for reading the second installment of this fic! I'll be back on Thursday with the next chapter and I promise to clean up this angst!
> 
> Also, in regards to the two charity auctions I mentioned in the previous chapter, it was pointed out to me that even though I'm not profiting in any way, posting links to the auctions could be seen as a possible violation of Ao3's terms. Ao3/OTW are an amazing organization doing the Lord's work for fandom, so the last thing I want to do is post anything that could potentially cause trouble for them, or all of us. So, instead, I'll just be posting a link to my Tumblr when the time comes and if you're interested, you can get more info there.


	4. Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends!
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting! This week got away from me. I hope you enjoy the latest installment in this story!
> 
> No warnings for this chapter, but be sure to check out the end notes for an update from me. ❤

Castiel watches idly as the glossy green summer leaves of the poplar tree sway in the warm midday breeze. The hilltop is a peaceful place, for any but Castiel. He’s melancholy and restless, as has been his norm since leaving Dean on the shore outside of a small coastal town after pulling him from a sea that still bore the winter’s chill. He tries to keep his mood from souring the ambience of the hilltop though. It upsets the bees.

More than anything, he’d wanted to stay with Dean, but when the kite maker opened his eyes, Castiel had fled. How could he face Dean after his family, his own _mother_ even, had tried to kill the man? Dean hadn’t wanted him _before_ Castiel’s relations had attacked him. How much must he hate Castiel now?

Nearby twittering from a pair of sparrows draws Castiel’s attention from his pining as they alight from their nest and fly for the cover of the nearby trees. What he sees when he looks their way stills the overhead leaves, halting their gentle rustling. 

Dean stands on the hilltop, holding a large canvas case in hand. He stands tall and strong, all traces of boyhood gone from frame and features, except, perhaps, for a faint twinkle of mischief in his jade eyes as he offers up the hint of a smirk.

“I know you’re here, Cas,” says a voice like warm honey—smooth, rich, and molten. “Whether I can see you or not, you can’t hide from me. Besides, it’s always a dead give away when the leaves go quiet.”

Cursing himself, Castiel sets the leaves back in motion, maybe rustling them a little more than absolutely necessary.

Dean’s lips twitch.

“I know you were there that night. You saved me. Again.” Dean smiles softly. “Always savin’ me, Cas.”

Kneeling on the grassy hilltop, Dean loosens the straps on the rolled canvas carrying case, speaking as he lifts the cover to reveal a dark stretch of fabric.

“I finally finished it,” he whispers. “The phoenix kite.”

Unable to quell his curious nature, Castiel moves closer. He reaches toward the kite, gentle breeze ruffling the edge of the fabric before pulling back sharply.

“It’s okay,” Dean murmurs. “You can touch it.”

Timidly, Castiel reaches past the kite maker toward the kite. Dean’s eyes fall shut and he swallows as the wind gently brushes his cheek, tickling the hair around his ear. Castiel’s so distracted by the bobbing of Dean’s Adam’s apple he almost forgets about the kite entirely until Dean clears his throat.

“I finally figured out what was wrong,” he says softly as he finishes unfolding the canvas and begins assembling the kite. “I had drawn the phoenix in reds and oranges, the colors I thought a phoenix would be.”

The poplar leaves tilt quizzically. Castiel recalls the brilliant scarlet, gold, and orange sketches in Dean’s notebook. Certainly, those colors would be appropriate for a bird of flame?

“But the thing is, a phoenix isn’t born from the fire.” Dean holds up the large fabric kite, arms stretched wide to display the graceful phoenix in its entirety. 

The hilltop goes entirely still, even the gnarled and weathered poplar tree seeming to hold its breath.

“It’s reborn from the ashes.” 

Castiel watches the summer sun play across the kite, unable to look away. Inky black fabric shines iridescent in the sunlight, one moment shifting into a midnight blue, the next a deep plum before glowing forest green. Black paint adds depth and shadow to the fabric, creating the illusion of feathers. Hundreds of delicate, hand-painted feathers.

Dean has given his phoenix wings. Castiel’s wings. The wings Dean created for him in their shared dreamworld.

“I’ve spent my entire life chasin’ the wind, Cas. But you were right here, the whole time, and I never shoulda left.”

Resting the kite on the ground, Dean sits back on his heels and hangs his head. His voice is quiet and shakes just a little as he admits, “I was afraid. Afraid of what people would think. Afraid of letting people down. Afraid of this.” He gestures at the phoenix kite on the ground. “But I’m done bein’ afraid, Cas. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Cas glances at the kite where it lies between them—simple fabric, stick, and string bound together to build something so much more. A vessel containing the precious memories of a young boy missing his mother, the dreams of a youth trying to bear burdens far too heavy, the passions of a young man struggling to find his place in a world where he doesn’t quite fit. The same protectiveness and righteous fury that filled Castiel the night of the fire and again the night his kin tried to take Dean’s life a second time on the ocean surges through him now. 

Drawing from the knowledge he used once to pull Dean’s body from the sea, Castiel emulates his kite maker and builds a vessel of his own. Not just a hand this time, but an entire body. The wind on the hilltop hastens, leaves and dandelion seeds swirling around the kite maker and his creation as they coalesce into flesh and bone. Muscles, skin, and hair form the mirror image of the body Dean created for Castiel in his dreams, right down to the wings. Like the moon reflected on the dark surface of a pond, it’s made of something completely different from Dean’s human body and yet is still the same.

Standing on legs that still feel insubstantial, Castiel blinks open sky blue eyes and looks down to where Dean is still kneeling on the hilltop. Dean’s gaze trails slowly up and down Castiel’s body, taking him in, his cheeks flushing crimson as his eyes pass Castiel’s bare midsection.

Clambering to his feet, Dean takes an unsteady step forward, voice full of awe and a little trepidation as he whispers, “Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel smiles. Letting out a slightly strangled laugh, Dean launches himself at Castiel and they wind their arms around one another, Dean’s clothes and hair fluttering gently in Castiel’s embrace. Dean pulls back to look at Castiel, face still split in a grin.

“Feels like the wind.”

The glossy black feather gleams against the thick white paper as Castiel binds it to the envelope with a coarse strand of twine. It’s not actually his feather, of course, as Castiel’s feathers fade back to insubstantial wind once they’re separated from his body, but Castiel has learned that with humans it is sometimes “the thought that counts.” The note itself is brief, as Castiel’s skills in reading and writing are still rudimentary at best, but hopefully contains enough information to assure Dean of both Castiel’s love and his intention to return.

It’s been years since Dean came back to their hilltop. They still visit their poplar often, trying out Dean’s newest kite designs or just lying side-by-side in the tall grass as the bumblebees buzz nearby or the fireflies hover at night, but they live in a small house several miles from town. Dean rents it for them and it’s tiny, but homey, just large enough to be shared by two men… or, well, one man and one immortal being with a mostly-corporeal body. 

When he’s not building kites or flying them with Castiel, Dean spends much of his time traveling, visiting kite shows and festivals where he displays his kites and offers his skills as a world-renowned (Castiel’s words, not Dean’s, who is far too modest for his own good), kite designer and builder. Dean takes orders from kite hobbyists, collectors, and competitors around the globe. He’s even consulted with various companies and a couple of military officials on the uses of kites to deliver important messages.

Traveling is what Dean is doing now actually, a series of events taking him far from home. He’ll be gone much longer than usual, which gives Castiel the opportunity to do something he’s been thinking about for quite some time. With any luck, he’ll make it back home before Dean does, but time passes differently for the elementals and Castiel isn’t at all certain how long his journey will take him, hence the note. 

Letting the door fall closed behind him, Castiel holds out his hands in front of him, taking one final look at his long fingers with their fair skin and light dusting of dark brown hair, before releasing his hold on his human form and fading back into the ambient breeze surrounding him. It’s not an unfamiliar transition for him, since he still shifts back into his spirit form on occasion to dance with Dean’s kites, something they both enjoy, but he would be lying if he said there wasn’t a small part of him afraid each time that he won’t be able to shift back.

The life he and Dean share together is a happy one and for his part, Dean seems content. However, as the days stretch on, Castiel finds himself becoming increasingly dissatisfied with his vessel and the limits it places on the nature of his and Dean’s relationship. 

For all that it looks solid, like the moon in the pond, Castiel’s body is only a watery imitation of the real thing. Castiel has watched other human couples interact. He’s seen them hugging, kissing, touching one another to show their affection, but he can’t even hold Dean’s hand properly. He can grasp Dean’s hand in his own, but he knows that all Dean feels is the wind rushing over his skin. And Castiel can feel the press of Dean’s hand as his airstream breaks over it, but he can’t feel the callouses on Dean’s palms, or the strength of his grip.

Even at their most intimate, Castiel finds himself longing for a closeness… a connection, that eludes him. As he begins his journey, his mind drifts to the night before, when he and Dean lay in their bed, Castiel caressing Dean’s body, leaving goosebumps and shivering skin in his wake, a pert nipple coming to attention under his ministrations as he moved ever downward. Castiel had brought Dean, pleading and moaning, to release, and though he always loves bringing Dean pleasure, he longs to touch properly… to _feel._

He can feel the resistance of Dean’s body against his, but he can’t feel the warmth of him. He feels the puff of Dean’s breath as he pants Castiel’s name, but he can’t feel the wet heat of his lover’s lips. He can feel Dean’s hands move over him, but there’s no tingling gooseflesh to mark their passage.

It is that which draws Castiel toward his current destination. Missouri and Johsua are the eldest of Castiel’s kin and as earth spirits, the most connected to the mortal plane and its inhabitants. Castiel is hoping they’ll know of a solution to his problem. 

“There may be…a way,” Joshua says carefully when Castiel explains his plight. “But are you certain that is what you want, young one?”

Castiel bristles at the reference to his youth, the nearby fire lilies quivering in the sudden gust. He’d found the earth elementals relaxing in the middle of a lush and flourishing garden, surrounded on all sides by blooms of every possible color, shape, and size, along with a ripe green assortment of non-flowering vines and shrubs—creeping ivy crawls across stone benches and fences placed there for just that purpose and thick hedges line the exterior of the garden, carefully trimmed and shaped into various animal forms, standing watch. Even now, as he gazes across the sea of plant-life, a giant moose hedge stares back at him from the other side, regal and wise. 

In the center of the garden, standing behind, around, and above the two aged earth spirits sprawls a massive live oak, its low-hanging limbs spreading outward, as if it longs to shelter this entire sacred place. If Castiel weren’t feeling quite so desperate, he might be awed by this Eden. 

Sensing his agitation, Missouri calms the trembling tiger lilies with a touch, new blooms unfurling and turning their faces toward the light as she speaks. “Young, yes, but not so young as he once was. Love brings growth, after all.” The elemental turns her full attention to Castiel and he feels suddenly very young indeed. Hard-working bees buzz in annoyance as the clover petals they’re alighting upon squirm with Castiel’s sudden discomfort. “And you love this young human, yes?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers emphatically. 

“The wind doesn’t normally concern itself with the well-being of flesh and blood creatures,” Joshua comments. A pair of squirrels titter and chase one another across the branches of the oak as the earth spirit watches them fondly. “I am surprised you even noticed the human. At least, that you noticed him as more than a play-thing,” he adds darkly.

“My brothers…and my mother, may enjoy tormenting humans, but I never have,” Castiel answers indignantly. “And while it may be true that there was a time when I didn’t ‘concern’ myself with humanity, Dean changed that.” He pauses before adding in a quieter voice, “Dean changed everything.”

“You saved him,” Missouri says, a fact, not a question. “From the fire demons.”

“Yes,” Castiel answers defensively. “He was a child.”

“And again, from the sirens.”

“What is your point?” 

“Do you know, young sprite, why the elementals were created?” Joshua asks the question lightly, but every bloom and leaf in the garden seems to be at attention, waiting to hear Castiel’s answer.

“I…I’m not even sure _when_ we were created,” Castiel admits.

The elder spirit chuckles at that. “Wind creatures, always with their heads in the clouds.”

“The elementals, Castiel, were created to be the guardians of this world,” Missouri explains. “Its protectors.”

If Castiel had been in his human form, his brow would have wrinkled. “But, we create such devastation. Tornadoes, hurricanes, blizzards, fires…” He looks at the earth spirits pointedly, “Earthquakes.”

It’s Joshua who responds, “Yes, we do, because part of protecting this world is ensuring that it exists in balance.”

“But we also help this world and its inhabitants, Castiel. We nurture the earth so that it can be fruitful and produce food for the creatures that live here. The wind carries the seeds and the rain clouds needed for those plants to grow. Rain the water nymphs use to nurture the soil, plants, and animals that abound on this planet. Even the fire spirits have their role,” she says to Castiel’s disbelieving look. “Your human wouldn’t last very long without heat for his home or his food.”

“What does this have to do with my becoming human?”

“Just that, child,” Missouri says softly. “You can’t become human, not fully. You are an elemental. Your purpose is to protect this world and _all_ its inhabitants, not just a single man.”

“Your mother may have forgotten her duty,” Joshua intones, “but we have not.”

Cherry blossom petals swirl in a frenzy around the three spirits as Castiel pleads, voice desperate, “But, you said there was a way!”

“There is, but if you expect me to tell you what it is, you’d best settle down and keep that wind to yourself. These orchids are delicate,” Missouri chides sharply and Castiel immediately calms, chastened.

“That’s better,” the earth goddess soothes, “I suppose you have a form you wish this body to take?”

Tiny wildflowers sway in the breeze, turning their faces away bashfully. Were it possible for wind to blush, Castiel is certain he would do so now. 

“I do,” he admits.

“Well? Let’s get a look at you then, sugar.”

Castiel shifts into his human form.

“My, my, aren’t you handsome? Yes, I think this form will do quite nicely.” Missouri turns to Joshua, who hums an agreement.

“Will you tell me now? How I can have a real body?”

“I think,” Joshua answers with a glance at Missouri, “you should pay a visit to the hedge witch.”

The hedge witch, it turns out, lives deep in an isolated forest, where she apparently communes with the earth spirits and occasionally other elementals in her spell-casting. According to Joshua and Missouri, she is bound to aid the elementals in their duty to serve and protect this world, as some sort of penance for previous wrong-doing.

Castiel approaches the dwelling the earth spirits have assured him belongs to this witch. It’s certainly…flashier than he would expect of a nature witch, though the giant tree limbs winding through and supporting the pentagonal treehouse certainly speak to her connection with the earth. 

The house itself manages to be two stories, despite already resting a good fifteen feet above the ground, a rather elaborate wooden staircase leading up to the platform surrounding the house proper (which has a _turret_ ), upon which Castiel alights and shifts into his human form once again.

He’s about to knock on the arched wooden door, flanked on both sides by large stained glass windows, when it flies open of its own accord, revealing a very petite human woman with flaming red hair, dressed in an elegant fuchsia evening gown that clashes horribly with her hair but matches her home well, if not the quiet woods surrounding it. 

Blood-red lips tick upward in a sly smile as she takes in Castiel in his human form. It makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable and he fights to keep from blowing about the dried sage hanging above the doorway.

“Well, in with you there, dearie. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Have you?” Castiel asks, confused. He wasn’t aware the earth spirits had a way of communicating with the witch to announce his coming.

Shooting a coy glance over her shoulder as she leads the way into a small, but surprisingly (or perhaps not, given the exterior of her treehouse) plush sitting room, she answers in a heavy yet lilting accent, “Of course not, pet. I’m a witch, not a psychic. But when one is a woman living alone in the middle of the woods, it behooves one to appear a bit mysterious and all-knowing, especially when unexpected wind spirits show up on one’s doorstep…emphasis on the _show up_.”

“Um, yes,” Castiel stammers, looking down at his human form. 

“Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see _all of you_ , of course.” The witch’s eyes trail lecherously down Castiel’s form, coming to rest slightly below the defined faux-muscles of his midsection and he startles, realizing he’s forgotten to manifest the shirt and trousers Dean always insists upon when Castiel is to be around anyone other than himself.

Focusing a moment in order to add these last few details, he ignores the witch’s amused pout as he responds, “I suppose this is a bit unorthodox.” 

“Aye, that’s true, but orthodoxy is so _boring._ So many _rules_ and _restrictions_. It’s why I left my coven in the first place.”

Castiel furrows his brow, “Really? Missouri and Joshua gave me the impression you were banished—”

“I _left,_ ” the tiny redhead answers shrilly, “after a slight difference of opinion, this is true, but that entire situation was blown far out of proportion. That young man could have turned into a newt any number of ways. There was no reason for them to blame me. If one can’t trust one’s sister-witches, who can one trust?”

“But was it you?” Castiel asks shrewdly.

“That’s not the _point_ , is it?” 

Castiel thinks that probably _is_ the point, but wisely opts not to say so. The witch’s shrill tone is starting to give him a headache, which is quite the feat given he’s an incorporeal being who lacks pain receptors. 

Seeking to change the topic to something a bit less touchy, Castiel glances around the sitting room, layered with thick carpets and plush velvet-covered chairs in garish shades of purple and gold. 

“You have a…lovely home,” he says diplomatically. Dean assures him that humans tell “white lies” like this all the time, especially when they want something, and Castiel definitely wants something from this unconventional hedge witch.

“Just because one lives in the middle of the woods and spends all of one’s time _communing_ with squirrels and wee wind spirits, doesn’t mean one can’t be fashionable,” the silk-clad witch answers primly. “Now, have you a name, wee wind spirit?” she asks as she seats herself on a royal purple chaise lounge. The color combination of furniture, hair, and gown are strangely disconcerting, a feeling that sums up Castiel’s impression of the tiny witch rather well.

“Oh, um, yes.”

“Care to share with the class, dear?” the witch asks, beginning to look a bit exasperated.

“Castiel,” he answers hurriedly, not wishing to upset his one chance at becoming human and being with Dean the way he wants. A number of dried up leaves and wilted flower petals leap from the small table next to the lounge and jitter nervously to the floor.

Arching an eyebrow at Castiel’s excitability but not commenting on it, the witch pats the seat next to her. “And I suppose you’re visiting because you have a problem that requires the talents of a naturally gifted and highly skilled witch, yes? Come. Sit and tell Auntie Rowena _all_ about it.” 

Castiel thinks it might have been Rowena’s binding to aid nature spirits that led Missouri and Joshua to call on her rather than her skill level, but he sits on the edge of the chaise, his wings cascading behind him over the seat’s open back, tips grazing the floor, and once again explains his plight.

“But what exactly is wrong with this body?” Rowena asks coyly. “It looks perfectly serviceable to me.”

“It’s not _real_ ,” Castiel complains. “It’s just an illusion. I’m no more substantial in this form than I am in Dean’s dreams. I want to touch. To _feel_ things as humans do.”

“And I suppose one of those _things_ you’re just dying to touch is your wee beau?” Rowena teases and as much as he longs for a human body, Castiel again finds himself momentarily relieved that wind can’t blush. 

Rowena smirks at him knowingly. “This _Dean_ of yours must really be something,” she says. “Does he have a brother?”

“Yes,” Castiel squints at her. “A _younger_ brother. How old are you, anyway?”

“ _Rude_ ,” the redhead chides indignantly. “The first thing you need to learn about humans, Castiel, is that you _never_ ask a witch her age. Being an immortal nature spirit is no excuse for poor manners.”

“Can you help me or not?”

“Oh, aye. But,” she adds, warning off Castiel’s hopeful expression with a raised finger, “there’s a price. Magic always has a price.”

“I’ll pay it.”

“Will you now?” Reaching up, Rowena runs a hand down the color-shifting feathers of Castiel’s wing. “How attached are you to these? They have no place on a human body you know.”

“I understand. The wings were Dean’s idea, like the rest of my body. I’ll gladly give them up for him.”

“Hmm, giving up your wings? Aye. That’ll do. The spell I’m going to give you, it will create a human body for you—flesh, blood, tears, the whole mortal package. But with that body will come mortal limitations—you’ll age, become ill, die.”

“I understand.” The tassels on the elaborate carpet underneath the chaise flutter with Castiel’s excitement. 

“Do you? For all intents and purposes, Castiel, this spell will turn you into a human. A walking, talking, _earth-bound_ human.”

Castiel pauses. “You mean, I won’t be able to fly? Or control the wind?”

“Or leave the mortal plane. Or communicate with other elementals.”

Surprisingly, Castiel feels a sudden pang at the thought of not being able to speak to his brothers any longer. He may not have much in common with his kin, but the thought of being cut off from them is…disconcerting. 

“Forever?”

“Not quite. The spell I have, it can give you a body, but it cannot create a human soul. Your humanity will last only as long as your mortal body does. Once you die, your essence will be released back to the spirit realm.”

Brow furrowing, Castiel nods. “That’s what Missouri and Joshua meant when they said I can’t become human, not really.” Another thought occurs to him and his eyes widen. “And what will happen to Dean? When he dies? Will we be separated?” 

“I don’t know,” Rowena answers simply, round hazel eyes looking at him with something akin to sympathy.

Castiel feels foolish for never having thought of this before. Human life spans are so brief, so fleeting. Has he really gone through so much to finally be with Dean, only to lose him in the blink of an eye? As unsettling as this realization is, it only serves to strengthen his resolve. If his time with Dean is truly to be so short, then he’ll do whatever he needs to do, _sacrifice_ whatever he needs to, to make the most of it.

“I want the spell.”

Standing and moving into a small, but bright kitchen that looks much more comfortable with its wooden countertops and hanging bunches of dried herbs than the rest of her rather intimidating home, Rowena pulls four small glass bottles down from the low shelf and rests them on the countertop.

“Just you wait here,” she says brightly, “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Castiel stares at the glass vials, wondering why Rowena has left them behind…and empty. Is she going to fill them with ingredients for the spell?

True to her word, she returns a moment later, a thick, folded piece of paper in hand. 

“It’s a fairly simple spell, as far as spells go. Aside from your wee self, you only need four other ingredients.” Gesturing at the empty bottles, she continues, “a blessing and an offering from each of the four elements.”

Castiel gapes at her. “You mean, I need approval from a spirit of each element?”

“Aye. You’re an elemental, Castiel. Leaving the spirit world behind, even temporarily, shifts the cosmic balance. It defies nature,” Rowena explains in her lilting voice. “That’s not a decision you can make for the world on your own.”

Sighing, Castiel gathers the four bottles and the page containing the spell into the small, velvet bag Rowena hands him. 

As he prepares to leave, the tiny witch wishes him well.

“And once you’re all sorted, you should bring that wee beau of yours by for a visit. It gets a bit lonely out here in the woods, you know.”

Castiel squints at her warily and Rowena huffs and irritated sigh.

“ _Fine,_ ” she says, drawing out the word with a roll of her eyes, “I promise I won’t turn him into a newt. Satisfied?”

Raising an eyebrow, Castiel says his farewells to Rowena and leaves the treehouse, using the stairway this time since he has items to carry and hearing her mutter behind him, “People are so _sensitive_ these days. Was a time, a young lad got turned into a newt, folks just assumed he had it coming…”

The witch’s plaintive voice trails off as Castiel heads into the woods, wondering exactly how he’s supposed to get his kin to agree to this spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! What did you think of hedge witch Rowena? And how about that spell? Any thoughts on what Dean's reaction is going to be? 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! Only one more chapter and a very short epilogue to go. Those will be posted together on Monday!
> 
> If you've been reading my end notes on this story and are interested in the charity event I spoke about, you can learn more [here](https://a-mandala-rose.tumblr.com/post/190904579214/image-an-uncapped-pen-sitting-on-top-of-a-page). Thanks for checking it out! ❤❤❤


	5. Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for his chapter... aside from some NSFW content!
> 
> Be sure to check out the epilogue end notes, though and thanks for reading!

Spell in-hand, Castiel’s first stop is back to the earth spirits, who give their blessing easily.

“May you find what you’re seeking, child, and may your time as a human teach you much about your duty as an elemental,” Missouri intones as Joshua stoops at the base of the live oak, gathering a sprinkling of loose soil into one of the vials.

Next, Castiel summons his brothers to him with a thought, easily done with kin so close. 

“Cassie, darling, how delightful!” Balthazar croons, while Gabe asks, “Where’s the old ball and chain?” 

Ignoring the bizarre reference (Gabriel has always had a thing for confusing Castiel with silly human turns of phrase), Castiel explains what he needs from them.

Gabriel lets out a low whistle that unsettles a butterfly from its resting place on a nearby bush. “So, Cassie wants to be a real boy,” he says slowly, studying Castiel with a seriousness that seems foreign on the playful sprite.

“I want to be with Dean,” Castiel corrects, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice as he adds, “And it’s not forever.”

“But you wish it were,” Baltazar counters shrewdly and Castiel doesn’t respond.

“I’m hurt, Cassie, really,” the elder wind spirit sighs, “though I certainly can’t argue the appeal of your little human. I can’t say I haven’t been curious about certain human  _ activities _ myself.”

“This isn’t just  _ curiosity,  _ Balthazar,” Castiel huffs, disturbing the same poor butterfly who finally gives up on this strangely windy bush and sets off to find less turbulent foliage. 

“Of course not, I know. It’s  _ love,”  _ his brother answers dismissively.

“Aw, Balthy, don’t be like that,” Gabriel soothes, nudging their brother, “Besides, think about it. Cassie will be  _ human _ .”

Slowly, Balthazar seems to brighten, the dandelion seeds next to them suddenly dancing mischievously.

“Yes. Think of the  _ possibilities.”  _

Castiel knows this can’t mean anything good for him and imagines that he and Dean have a long future of chasing their windblown belongings across muddy roads and into ponds, but he’s relieved that his brothers seem agreeable.

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Cassie,” Balthazar says brightly as Gabriel blows a couple of swirling dandelion seeds into a vial, “What else is family for? We give you our blessing, little brother. Go have a happy  _ human _ life with your beloved. And if you get the opportunity, do tell me what it’s like to experience a menage a…how do you say ‘twelve’ in French?”

As nervous as Castiel had been to ask his brothers for their blessing, the fire elementals are even more daunting. Still holding a grudge after the burning of Dean’s home and the death of Mary Winchester, Castiel refuses to be anywhere near Alastair. His elder siblings, Lilith and Lucifer, are every bit as bad: cruel spirits who use their gifts to cause fear and pain in humanity, making his brothers’ pranks seem downright friendly in comparison.

Fortunately, Castiel has another option. Like him, Meg is the youngest of her kind. She’s every bit as temperamental and hot-headed as her elder kin, but also full of light and warmth. And she’s always had a bit of a soft spot for Castiel.

“You want to do  _ what?”  _ The family clustered around the nearby campfire leap back as the flames surge, turning their dinner into a charred mess.

Meg may be fond of Castiel, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to make this easy on him. He sighs.

“Meg, please.”

“Okay, there’s one thing I don’t get. You saved this meat sack from the sirens. Why? He was dead, right?”

“I love him,” Castiel explains.

“Sure, but he was  _ dead. _ Because humans  _ die _ . It’s kind of their thing. Why go through all this trouble for one sticky, smelly, talking ape who isn’t even going to be around all that long anyway?” The campfire flickers with Meg’s obvious confusion.

“Because, _I_ _love him_. Did you listen to anything I just said?”

“Oh, I heard the rest. You fell in love with a unicorn. It was beautiful, then sad, then sadder. I laughed, I cried, I puked a little.” Meg pauses, glancing at Castiel with an expression he can’t quite decipher before adding, “And honestly, I kinda get it.”

“So, you’ll help me?” Castiel asks, not bothering to hide the timid hope in his voice.

The fire demon sighs and Castiel imagines the fire next to them is oddly subdued when she answers, “Sure, Clarence. I’ll help you.”

Meg ushers a glowing ember from the campfire into one of Castiel’s two remaining empty bottles.

“You have my blessing, or whatever. Go be with your unicorn. And take care of mine,” she ends on a whisper and Castiel isn’t certain he was actually intended to hear that last part, as little sense as it made.

It’s with very mixed feelings that Castiel approaches the last of his kin, the sirens. The turbulence of his emotions stirs up frothy whitecaps on the waves around him as he summons them to a deserted beach, standing knee deep in the salty water. He needs their help, but it galls him to ask for it after his cousins so violently attacked the man he loves. He’s also not sure how he’s going to persuade them to help him. The water sprites detest human romance, though he’s never understood why.

As expected, Hester immediately bristles at Castiel’s request. 

“You think we would give you our  _ blessing _ to abandon your family, your duty, and join with this  _ human?” _

“You have no love for me, cousin,” Castiel counters. “I don’t see why you should care where or with whom I spend my days.”

The tide rises around Castiel, the waves that had lapped gently at his knees now cresting at his waist and battering against him, but Castiel stands firm. 

“He is  _ human _ ,” Hester answers. The waves spit vitriol around Castiel. “His very touch corrupts. The moment you laid a hand on him, you were lost.”

“Why do you hate humanity so?” Castiel wonders aloud. Most of his kin are perhaps, dismissive of humans, but the sirens loathe them with a vehemence that baffles.

Observing from the sidelines, Hannah’s gaze shifts from Hester to Anna, who smiles sadly at Castiel.

“Perhaps my story will change your mind, little cousin.”

Castiel looks at her doubtfully, but gestures for the water nymph to continue.

“I was like you once. In love with a human and desperate to be with him, to touch him, to feel him. Like you, I visited a witch who promised me a spell that would give me the body I longed for. Eve asked a steep price, but I was willing to pay anything.”

“What was the price?” Castiel asks curiously.

“My voice,” his cousin answers softly and Castiel’s eyes widen. The sirens have always prided themselves on their beautiful song. To surrender her voice would have been a very steep price indeed.

Staring off into the distance, Anna continues, the tide slowly retreating as she shares her sad tale, waves lapping mournfully at Castiel’s shins. 

“Everything was perfect in the beginning, or so I thought. I gained my body and the heart of my human love. Though I missed singing with my sisters and hearing the call of the sea in return, I was content.” She turns a baleful glance on Castiel. “But then, after taking a walk along the beach one afternoon, I returned to Adam’s home, only to discover him in bed with another woman, Eve.”

“The witch?” Castiel asks with a sinking feeling.

“Yes,” Anna nods. “She had seduced Adam deliberately, to teach me the fickleness and inconsistency of men, she said. Heartbroken, I threw myself into the sea, drowning my human body so I could return to my sisters and regain my voice. That day, I was born anew, a child of Eve.”

The waves build once again, in strength and fury. “My sisters and I vowed from that moment on to use our song for one purpose, to punish the wickedness of men.”

“Dean has never betrayed me,” Castiel calls as he stands firm against the howling sea.

“He left you,” Anna says darkly.

“He didn’t know I loved him, then. He didn’t believe we could be together. Dean longed for me just as much as I longed for him. Just as much as you longed for Adam. His love is true.”

“Love is a lie, Castiel. I won’t allow you to suffer the same fate that I did. I’m sorry.”

With that, Anna and Hester fade from sight, the tide receding entirely, leaving behind nothing but wet sand and tepid tidal pools by Castiel’s feet. 

“No!” Castiel shouts, pleading. “Come back. You have to come back!”

This can’t be happening. He was so close. So close to having everything he wants with the man he loves. Castiel drops to his knees, the final glass vial slipping from his fingertips, landing with a soft plunk next to one of the shallow pools in the soft sand. Burying his head in his hands, Castiel’s wings curl despondently over his makeshift body. He would sob, but even tears are denied him in this halfling form.

“Castiel?” Hannah’s voice is soft. 

He looks up to see the youngest of his cousins looking at him with sorrowful kindness. “Yes?”

“You really do love him, don’t you?”

“The bond I share with Dean is more profound than anything I have ever experienced. And I know, Hannah, that he feels the same about me. My story will not have the same ending as Anna’s.”

The sprite watches him for some time before answering, “I know.”

Castiel starts in surprise and Hannah continues, “I watched you, that night on the ocean. I too have longed for human things, human feelings. To bathe, feel water on my skin, to grow closer to another. But all of that was nothing compared to what I felt when I saw you that night. Your anger. Your grief. And what I felt from  _ him.. _ .”

Castiel’s eyes widen again at this. He didn’t know the sirens could sense the feelings of their victims.

“Even as he fell under the power of Anna’s song, his entire being was screaming out for you. This bond you share, it is not ours to interfere in. It belongs to you. Both of you.”

Castiel watches in disbelief as brackish water trickles into the vial from the nearby pool. 

“I know when to step aside,” Hannah says before she too fades from sight.

“Goodbye, Castiel.”

“No, Cas,” Dean says, slashing his hand through the air as he spins to face Castiel in the doorway to their bedroom. “You’re not doin’ this.”

“Dean,” Castiel begins, but Dean cuts him off before he can even get started, pointing an accusatory finger in Castiel’s direction.

“Don’t ‘ _ Dean’  _ me, Cas. You knew I’d never agree to something like this. That’s why you snuck off in the first place, instead of sticking around and, I don’t know,  _ talking _ to me about it first.”

Ah, so Dean is mad that he left. Well, he expected that. And he supposes he may have been gone longer than intended. He’s still not very good with human concepts of time.

“Dean,” he tries again, “I’m sorry I left without telling you, but I had to go. I couldn’t stay here any longer, always wondering what it would be like to be with you the way I want to be, the way you deserve. Without even knowing if it was possible. And now I  _ do _ know and it  _ is _ possible. How can you ask me not to pursue that?”

Ignoring his question, Dean asks one of his own, “What do you mean, ‘the way I deserve?’ You’re a goddamn spirit, Cas. One of the four elements that make up the whole damn world. You have powers and abilities that a mortal, a  _ human,  _ like me could never even hope to understand, let alone possess. I don’t even come close to deserving something as incredible as you.”

Castiel sighs. Dean has always thought far too little of himself. 

“Dean Winchester, in the eons of my existence, you are far and away the best human, person,  _ being _ I have ever had the good fortune to encounter. You are goodness, and light, and warmth and you deserve someone who can  _ feel  _ that warmth. Someone who can clasp your hand in their own.” He reaches for Dean’s hand, watching the tiny hairs there flutter in the breeze. 

Dean rolls his eyes at that and Castiel raises a challenging eyebrow. “Someone who can embrace you in winter without you risking frostbite.” Raising an arm, he reaches behind himself and swipes through a wing, hand passing through the dark feathers as if they’re nothing but smoke. “Someone corporeal.”

Dean scoffs. “Sorry, but I’d rather have you,  _ corporeal _ or not.”

“But Dean, don’t you see? You can have both.  _ We  _ can have both.”

“Is this about the sex stuff? ‘Cause I’m good, Cas. I promise. I don’t need a more physical relationship. I’m happy with you just the way you are.”

Frustration rising, Casiel sets the pages to the sketchbook that lives on the nightstand next to Dean’s side of the bed rippling and the curtains billowing against the closed window before he reigns in his feelings. “Maybe you’re happy with things the way they are, but I’m not. Have you considered that? This isn’t just about you and what  _ you  _ want. What  _ you  _ need.  _ I  _ want.  _ I  _ need.”

“What do you need, Cas?” Dean asks, sounding a little hurt that he apparently isn’t enough for Castiel, who rushes to correct that misunderstanding. Even the thought of Dean being anything less than enough for him is impossible.

“You, Dean. Just you. In every way I can have you. I need to feel your lips pressed against mine. Your hands working their way down my body. Your legs, tangled up with mine. I need to feel close to you in every way possible. I need to feel you, Dean. Against me, on me, in me.”

Dean swallows, licking his lips as he tries, and fails, to appear unaffected by Castiel’s impassioned speech.

Crowding into Dean’s space, Castiel looks up into those earthen eyes. “Someday, you’ll be gone. And I’ll still be here, alone once again. If the time we have together is to be so limited, I need to experience it in every way possible. I want every moment, every sensation, every touch to carry with me, when I’m left behind.”

Dean’s eyes soften at this and Castiel is certain he’s not imagining the sniff he hears as Dean turns away from him, walking over to the small desk by the window that holds many of Dean’s drawing supplies. Dean rests his hand on the desk and stands quietly for some time, head bowed.

Knowing that now is not the time to push, Castiel waits, forcing himself to stillness.

Finally, Dean moves. Opening a drawer, he pulls out a set of chalks and clears his throat. “Okay then,” he says, turning back around, eyes reddened and glassy, “Let’s get this thing started.”

Following the instructions on the page Rowena gave Castiel, Dean uses one of the chalks to draw a large pentagram on the floor, housed inside a circle. He places a large white candle in the center of the pentagram and lights it before he steps back, retreating to the edge of the room at Castiel’s insistence. They don’t know exactly what this spell is going to do or what…side effects it could have.

“Let’s just hope I say all this right and don’t turn you into a cockroach instead of a human,” Dean jokes. “I took Latin in school, but that was years ago. I’m more than a little out of practice. Plus, I wasn’t very good at it in the first place.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel carefully sets each of his four spirit offerings on one of the pentagram’s points, before standing at the apex as Dean recites the spell. 

“Mortuum oritur. Rutum revertitur. Ex spiritum incarnatum est. Oriatur et educatur. Oriatur et educator.”

For a moment, it appears that nothing is happening. Castiel turns to look at Dean, who shrugs, glancing down at the paper clasped in his hands and mouthing to himself, seemingly double-checking the pronunciation of his Latin. At least he does until without warning, the constant gentle breeze that surrounds Castiel even in his human form whips up into a howling gale that lashes around the bedroom. The indoor whirlwind tears the curtains from the window frame and sends Dean’s sketchbook skittering around the room, soon joined by scraps of fabric from his desk and the photo of him and Sam wedged into the frame of the mirror hanging above Dean’s dresser.

“Dean,” Castiel calls out in warning a moment before the man in question ducks to avoid the thick sketchpad hurtling toward his head, raising his arms for cover. Castiel attempts to reach for Dean, but finds himself rooted to his point on the pentagram, a very disconcerting feeling for one who is used to limitless freedom. He strains against his invisible bindings, but his thrashing seems only to escalate the furious windstorm surrounding them. The mirror knocks dangerously against the wall before coming loose entirely, careening across the room and crashing into the opposite wall, where it shatters.

“Cas,” Dean’s answering call reaches Castiel, but he finds himself unable to respond, feeling now like he’s being pulled apart at the seams, all of the tempestuous, turbulent air raging around the room feeling as if it’s being siphoned  _ out _ of Castiel. He feels like his very essence is being drained, scourged, changed. He manages to turn his head enough to lock eyes with Dean, sky meeting grass one final time before the flickering candle flame in the pentagram’s center flares brightly then snuffs out, plunging the room, and Castiel, into darkness.

When Castiel wakes, the first thing he feels is warm. No. More than  _ warm _ . He is…  _ hot?  _ Yes. Hot. Sweating. Sweltering.

The second thing he feels is restrained. Weighed down. Trapped.

Panicking as the details of the spell they’d cast filter back to him, he begins thrashing and kicking. Or at least, he does until he suddenly kicks off the heavy blankets on top of his and Dean’s bed, exposing his new human skin to the cool air of their bedroom and finds himself suddenly freezing.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice comes from the direction of their bedroom door. Groaning, Castiel attempts to open his eyes and look at Dean, but is immediately assaulted by a searing beam of sunlight streaming aggressively through the curtainless window. Squeezing his eyes closed again, he reaches down, fumbling blindly for the blankets before grasping them one-handed and hauling them back up over his head.

The sun is too bright. These sheets are too scratchy. How do humans stand this all the time? At least he knows the spell worked, though now he’s thinking maybe it worked a little  _ too _ well.

Castiel feels the mattress shift as Dean sits next to him.

“Morning, sunshine.” Dean’s voice is warm and fond and somehow sounds richer, more nuanced with Castiel’s new human hearing.

As melodic as Dean’s voice is, all Castiel can manage in return is another gravel-laden groan, earning a chuckle from Dean.

“What’s so funny?” Castiel manages to form the words, though they come out muffled by the thick green blanket still covering his curled form.

“Nothing,” Dean answers affectionately. “It’s just, I’ve always kind of wondered what you’d be like when you woke up, and you’re exactly the way I thought you’d be.”

Rolling onto his back and sliding the blankets down just far enough to reveal his head and shoulders, Castiel shivers in the cool morning air, still squinting against the bright sunlight as he tries looking at Dean again. 

“How’s that?”

Dean smiles cheekily. “Grumpy and adorable.”

As his brand new eyes slowly adjust to  _ seeing _ for the first time, Castiel is able to take in the man sitting above him. Dean is every bit as beautiful as Castiel remembers, but like his voice, his features are now even more nuanced, his skin ruddier, a mix of browns, pinks, and creams, as opposed to the single shade Castiel had always thought it to be. Dean’s freckles too are more prominent, also appearing in a veritable rainbow of colors and his eyes… Castiel didn’t know there were so many variations on green.

A new thought occurs to him.

“How do I look?”

Dean takes a moment to study him. Well, he studies the twelve inches of Castiel not currently layered underneath three blankets, before answering, “You look like you’ve always looked, except your cheeks are more pink and your bedhead is actually from a bed for once and… um…” Dean pauses, eyes darting to the bed beyond Castiel’s head before moving back to his eyes. “Your wings…”

Finally using his hands to push himself up to a sitting position, Castiel lets the covers pool at his waist as he crosses an arm over his chest, reaching back behind his shoulder to where his wing should meet his shoulder blade and finding nothing but a smooth expanse of skin. 

“Ah.”

Concentrating, he tries to summon a light breeze in the room. Nothing. Reaching toward the paper holding the body spell Dean had set on the nightstand, Castiel attempts to send it fluttering to the floor. Again, nothing. He nods to himself. The spell truly was a success, then. Castiel is human. With a human body and all of its sensations. But, he is without access to his element.

Dean watches him pensively, expression closed off. Castiel would dwell on this longer, but he’s distracted by yet another new sense. 

He can…  _ smell _ ? Yes, he’s fairly certain he’s smelling something. Something wonderful. He sniffs the air before casting a curious look at Dean.

“It’s pie,” Dean supplies. “I made pie. You were out for a long time and I was worried. And when I’m worried, I gotta—”

“Do something with your hands. Yes, I know,” Castiel completes Dean’s thought. He’s uncertain why Dean is rambling, acting as if this is the first time he’s meeting Castiel. As if there is anyone else who knows him more intimately, more completely.

“Yeah, well, my hands were shaking too much for sketching or building, plus I figured you’d probably be hungry sooner rather than later seein’ as you’ve never needed to eat before now, so I decided to bake.”

“Why pie?”

Dean shrugs and offers a small smile. “I thought, if I got to start over on the whole tasting food thing, what’d be the first thing I’d wanna put in my mouth? It was a no-brainer. You haven’t _ lived _ until you’ve tasted my cherry pie.”

“Well then, Dean, I’d very much like to taste your cherry pie.”

Dean’s face suddenly turns a much brighter shade of pink and though Castiel doesn’t understand the reason behind the blush, he’s mesmerized. 

Dean coughs and sputters a moment before he answers, “Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll just…” Standing and gesturing toward the bedroom door, he makes a hasty retreat, returning shortly with a plate and fork.

Using the fork the way he’s watched Dean do many times, Castiel scoops up a small bite of pie and places it in his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning obscenely as he uses his lips and tongue to pull the sharp-sweet pastry from the tines. “This…makes me very happy.”

Opening his eyes, Castiel flashes a gummy grin at Dean where his shirtless frame leans against the door frame, arms crossed in front of him. He sees Dean swallow, even more red-faced than before, before he smirks. “Sorry if I’ve ruined you for all other foods. They won’t all taste that good, by the way.”

Dean’s eyes stay glued to Castiel as he eats, moving from Castiel’s mouth, down his chest and abdomen, trailing along his arms to where the fork and plate are held in his long-fingered hands. It’s bizarre and Castiel’s knowledge of human anatomy tells him it shouldn’t be possible, but he swears he can  _ feel _ Dean’s gaze moving across his skin.

Despite the fact that Castiel can feel his core becoming steadily warmer, the delicate skin on his chest and the insides of his arms growing rosier, he watches as goosebumps erupt down his arm, trailing in the wake of Dean’s focused inspection.

Staring at the pimpled gooseflesh, Castiel finally voices the question that has plagued him since shortly after he awoke in this new body.

“Dean, why haven’t you touched me?”

Dean’s look is one of surprise before he quickly schools his features back into that closed-off expression from earlier.

“Cas…” Dean trails off, seeming uncertain of how to continue. It’s been a very long time since Dean has been uncertain around him. It hurts.

“Are you afraid of me?” Castiel looks pointedly at the distance between them. “Do you not want to be close to me…like this?”

Dean’s eyes widen and his expression softens as he hastens to close the distance between them, seating himself once again on the bed, one leg drawn up onto the mattress so he can face Castiel.

“I always wanna be close to you,” he whispers, locking those kaleidoscope green eyes on Castiel’s.

“Then why are you so far away?” Castiel asks in return, his voice equally quiet.

Dean’s eyes drop to the mattress.

“What if…” He swallows. “What if it’s not worth it?”

Castiel tilts his head at him quizzically and Dean smiles sadly at the familiar gesture.

“Giving up your wings. Your wind mojo and flying and all that. What if you touch me and decide it wasn’t worth it, after all?”

“Oh, Dean.” Castiel feels a surge behind his sternum and a leaping in his stomach as a new kind of warmth fills him. He has long known that he loves Dean, but it seems this feeling too is enhanced by his new body. How could he have gone all this time without knowing what a physiological phenomenon love can be? Nuanced and heady, the things he feels for and about Dean—tenderness, affection, bemusement, fondness, sympathy, compassion, protectiveness, loyalty, adoration, awe—tumble over one another, nearly overwhelming Castiel, as he replies, “It already is.  _ You _ already are.”

Reaching out with trembling fingers, he drags them down Dean’s stubbled cheek, fingertips tingling at the gentle scrape of the short, sharp hairs. Dean bites his lip and Castiel, mesmerized, grazes a thumb across the abused skin, marveling at the difference in sensation. 

Dean appears no less affected by their first skin-to-skin contact, letting out a half-choked sob as he turns his face in toward Castiel’s hand, pressing a kiss to his palm as he brings his own hand up to cover Castiel’s. The kiss spreads a new kind of tingle through the tender skin of Castiel’s palm, one that’s echoed deep in his core. 

Castiel isn’t sure who moves first, but suddenly the hand cupping Dean’s face is drawing him in, Dean’s own fingers trailing down Castiel’s arm to fasten around his elbow and guide him forward as the man’s other hand finds its way to the back of Castiel’s neck, setting the short hairs there alight and sending a shiver all the way down his spine. 

The kiss is hesitant at first, a tentative press of Castiel’s dry, slightly wind-chapped lips against Dean’s, plump and slick from his lip biting. One, two, three brief and gentle close-mouthed kisses turn into a fourth that lingers. Dean slides both hands up to cup Castiel’s face in his hands as he deepens the kiss, opening his mouth while keeping it pressed firmly against Castiel’s, who opens in turn. His own hands map their way across Dean’s chest and down his abdomen, canvassing every firm peak and supple valley. 

The first trace of a tongue along Castiel’s lower lip sends lightning arcing through him, his resounding moan muffled by Dean’s clever tongue as it snakes its way into Castiel’s mouth. When Dean finally pulls away, Castiel takes a shuddering breath, pressing his dampened forehead against Dean’s and panting raggedly. He feels Dean smirk against the corner of his mouth and pulls him into another kiss, this time plunging his own tongue into Dean’s eager mouth and eliciting a whimper from the man, all traces of smugness erased as he nips at Dean’s bottom lip.

This time it's Dean who’s left breathless when they part. 

“Fuck, Cas.”

“Still worried it won’t be worth it?” Castiel asks with a raise of his eyebrow.

Rolling his eyes, Dean pauses to finish undressing before he slides under the covers, blanketing Castiel with his body. If the long, searing line of Dean’s unclothed form pressed up against his weren’t enough to overwhelm Castiel all on its own, the hot, wet kisses Dean leaves across his throat and chest would do the trick. Dean’s mouth and hands wander over Castiel’s writhing body, wringing moans and shouts from him as Dean finds increasingly sensitive areas to explore. Waves of electricity cascade through Castiel’s center, cresting higher and higher, building toward a crescendo that overtakes Castiel like a tsunami. Back arching, he clings to Dean, who murmurs love and endearments into his overly sensitized skin.

It’s not until Dean swipes a thumb across his cheek that Castiel feels the wetness there and realizes he’s crying, for the first time ever. Dean kisses away the tears and Castiel presses his own gentle kisses to Dean’s sweat-slick neck, tasting the salt of him.

“How does that feel?” Dean whispers as Castiel drifts toward his first natural sleep as a human.

“Feels like flying.”


	6. Epilogue

Seated cross-legged on the grassy hilltop in the center of the park, Jack stares off into the distance in that endearing, yet slightly worrying way he has, asking softly, “Miss Patience, can you tell us the story of the boy who fell in love with the wind again?”

Before Patience can respond, eleven-going-on-sixteen-year-old Claire lets out an inelegant snort next to her. “That’s a baby story. No way can that actually be true.”

“Claire,” Alex scolds, drawing herself up and making great use of the slight size advantage she has over the skinny blonde girl, despite being a year younger. “Don’t say that. Even if it’s not true, I think it’s romantic. And it is  _ not _ a baby story,” she adds, casting a look at Jack, who furrows his brow before locking eyes with Patience.

“Is it true, Miss Patience?”

From her position between Claire and Alex (the only place to be if one hopes to keep the peace between those two), Patience shrugs her shoulders before answering her youngest charge, “My grandmother always swore it was and I told it to you the same way she told it to me.” 

Satisfied, Jack nods solemnly before turning his attention back to whatever distant wonderings had captured it before. Patience studies his profile for a moment—the too short, too skinny frame that would make him look even younger than his nine years were it not for the firm jawline and solemn expression that so often make him look impossibly older.

Leaning back on her hands, Claire rolls her eyes. “And everything you read on the internet is true too.”

Nudging Claire’s ankle sharply with a tennis-shoe clad toe, Alex speaks over her, “Well I want to hear the story again. Will you tell us, Patience?”

Smiling fondly at her three charges, Patience retells the story her grandmother has been telling her since the first time they came to this hilltop to fly a kite, when she was just five years old—about the curious nature spirit who befriends, rescues, and eventually falls in love with a human boy. She tells about the profound bond that grew between them, eventually leading the wind spirit to fall from the sky, choosing to live as a human, his love by his side. Despite all her posturing, even Claire remains quiet as Patience tells the story, seemingly fidgeting with a stray piece of grass, but focused on every word. 

Claire’s been at the group home the longest. Her father disappeared a number of years ago, leaving her and her mother alone and with a staggering amount of debt. It wasn’t long before her mother succumbed to the burden, finding less and less palatable ways to try and keep a roof over the young girl’s head, eventually turning to the chemical methods of coping that would eventually claim her life, when Claire was just eight.

Both of Alex’s parents had been murdered in front of her when she was the same age, except then Alex had spent two years kidnapped and tortured by her parents’ killers before her captors were caught attempting to abduct another. Both girls had been placed initially with foster families, but their behavior quickly escalated beyond what their foster parents could handle, Claire lashing out at everything and everyone who tried to get close to her and Alex turning her pain and aggression on herself.

Jack…well, no one knows exactly where Jack came from. He simply showed up one day, scrawny and underfed, clutching a chocolate bar in one hand and seemingly having no memory of where he’d been before. 

No matter though. Whatever their pasts, Patience sees bright futures ahead for this ragtag bunch, and what Patience sees has a tendency to come true. Her gift, her grandmother always called it. She ends the story the same way her grandmother always did, with the two men side-by-side on a hilltop, flying the black phoenix kite, before climbing to her feet and dusting off her jeans.

“Alright, guys, it’s time to pack up and head home. Jody’ll have dinner ready soon and it’s your turn to set the table, Claire.”

While Claire grumbles, Alex packs up the remains of their lunch. As they prepare to make their way down the hill, she asks, “Patience, what did happen when they died? Were they really separated when the wind turned back into a spirit?”

Folding the blanket, Patience smiles. “Well, I can’t know for certain, but I like to think their bond wouldn’t let that happen. Love like that, it finds a way.” She pretends not to notice the wistful look on Claire’s face as the two girls head down the hill.

Passing the blanket to Jack, Patience follows his gaze, watching for a moment as two kites, one blue as the sky surrounding it, the other green as new summer grass, dance together above the horizon. 

Nudging the boy’s shoulder, she shoots him a wink as they follow the girls towards the car, the ends of Jack’s hair ruffling gently in the breeze. 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are folks. That's the end! I hope you enjoyed my playful little wind sprite story!
> 
> Also, be sure to check out my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/a-mandala-rose) if you want more information on the thing I mentioned at the beginning of this story! 😉
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! 💖


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